dark hair. His trousers were belted tight, emphasising narrow hips and taut waist. Alessa was certain she was blushing.
‘Because of my position here,’ she said stiffly. Any minute now Mr Williams might come out of his office.
‘You are not a servant. Why act like one?’ The deep brown eyes were amused. It was all very well for him—he did not have to tread a careful line between familiarity and subservience in the most important household on the island.
‘I provide a service here. I am expected to know my place.’ She said it without rancour; she did not envy them their lives, their position.
‘And I am asking you to sit down, drink lemonade with me and keep me company for a few minutes. That too would be a service. If you wish, I will pay for your time. You are not in your own home, so I can offer remuneration without risking your wrath, can I not?’
Defeated, Alessa went to fetch the tray, set it on the wall and sat down. Beside her an orange tree in a pot gave out its sweet fragrance and she bent her head to inhale.
‘They flower at the same time as they fruit—I had not realised that.’ Chance was twisting to reach the jug of lemonade. Alessa jumped to her feet and stretched across him to take it before he hurt his hip, realising too late that it brought them almost face to face.
She could smell the tang of limes, not from any tree, but from the cologne he was using. Seizing the jug in both hands, she moved round to pour it at a safe distance. ‘Limes are the same,’ she blurted out. ‘And lemons. Grapefruit as well, I believe.’ I’m prattling. She stopped talking and handed Chance his glass carefully by the base so there was no opportunity for their fingers to touch.
Back on her perch, she raised her glass to her lips. The sweet-sharp shock of the drink jerked her back from the turmoil that his closeness and the scent of him had stirred up. It was ridiculous. She was among men every day. With some of them she massaged their naked shoulders, or dressed injuries on their bare limbs. None of them made her feel like this, as though one word would tumble her into his arms…
‘Alessa, what is your real name?’ He said it in so conversational a tone that she responded before she could think.
‘Alexandra—’ She caught herself just in time.
‘And you are English? You would not answer me before.’
‘My father was English.’ She took another mouthful of lemonade. No one in Corfu Town except Kate knew the truth. Why am I telling him?
‘And your mother? Was she Greek?’ She found she was watching the firm, expressive lips as he spoke.
‘French.’ His lips parted fractionally in surprise. He did not expect that. ‘My father met her long before he came to Greece or the islands. She died when I was very young.’
‘It cannot have been easy for them, with England at war with France. But of course, she was a Royalist sympathiser, a refugee in England, I presume.’
‘Oh, no. Papa picked her up—quite literally—in France in ‘93. Her husband had been killed in the revolt in the Vendée; Papa found her near Niort.’
‘Good God, that must have caused difficulties!’
‘Not really. The General was dubious, but Maman was so very charming and Papa was always extremely unconventional, so he shrugged and did nothing. She followed the drum, even after I was born. I have been to England a few times, but I hardly recall it. Then, when she died when I was twelve, I just stayed with him. It made his disguise more convincing. He changed my name to Alessa then.’
Alessa came out of the haze of memories conjured up by telling the story to find Chance staring at her with dawning comprehension. ‘There were no British troops involved in the Vendée—not regular British troops, in any event. You are an officer’s daughter. An intelligence officer’s daughter.’
‘Yes.’ There was no point in denying it now. ‘We’d been in and out of the Ionian islands for years on missions, but we settled on Corfu in 1807 when the French regained it. Papa would use his boat at night to rendezvous with English agents. He had a reputation locally as a smuggler, which helped.’
‘But he could have been shot! Is that what happened in the end?’
‘No.’ Alessa shook her head, giving herself a little time to steady her voice. Even now, it was hard to speak of. ‘He took the boat out one night, out towards Albania for a meeting. A storm blew up, as they do hereabouts, very sudden, very fierce. He never came home.’
Chapter Five
She had done it now, told Chance almost everything, as much as she had confided to Kate. Madness.
‘Alessa—’ She threw up a hand as if to ward off his sympathy and he caught it in his. ‘Alessa, why are you still here? Where are your family?’
‘Here. Dora and Demetri are all my family now,’ she said doggedly, her eyes fixed on the orange tree. It was the truth in every way that mattered.
Chance had trapped her hand, palm down between his. ‘But you must have relatives in England! Aunts, uncles, cousins—someone, for heaven’s sake. They cannot know that you are alone like this, surely?’
‘Papa did not wish…after Mama died…They did not want me,’ she burst out hotly. ‘I do not want them.’
‘And so you married a local man,’ he stated. ‘Was it for love or for security?’ His voice was oddly flat.
Alessa turned her head away, avoiding answering. He still thought her a widow and it seemed safer that way, although she was not sure why. But she did not want to lie to him.
‘Well, you are not married now,’ Chance said briskly. ‘Tell me your maiden name and we will make enquiries. Sir Thomas will have all the right reference books, we will soon see who to contact in England.’
‘No.’ She made herself meet his eyes. ‘No.’ The idea horrified her—could she ever make him understand? No, of course she could not. The Earl of Blakeney would be no more capable of that than he was of flying. He was English, an aristocrat, a man. To him home and family meant wealth, position, security, independence. For her it meant a kind of imprisonment in a foreign country, and the aching fear that they—whoever they were—would take the children away.
To Alessa’s surprise he did not persist, instead looking down at her hand as it lay trapped between his. Chance’s skin was as tanned as hers, his fingers long and somehow expressive, even though they were still. On one hand there was a signet ring with a dark intaglio stone.
‘How soft your hand is,’ he commented. ‘I would have expected all that washing to take its toll.’
‘You forget, I make salves for a living. I use olive oil soap too.’ She tried to match his light tone. Anything, to keep his mind off the subject of her parentage and her English relatives.
Chance lifted her hand. For a moment Alessa thought he was simply going to look at it, then he raised it to his lips, fingertips to his mouth. Startled, she did not draw back until it was too late, and the tip of her index finger was touching his lips. The sensation froze her where she was. It could not be called a caress—could it? He did not move his mouth, just held her finger against it.
