garden,” London pointed out. “Not a public street. I’ll be perfectly safe. You can even see me from the window.”
Her father looked over at Fraser, sitting close by in a cane-backed chair. The two men exchanged obvious speaking glances, communicating silently about the frivolity and foolishness of women. London clutched her fan tightly to keep hold of her patience.
“Very well,” Father said at last. He actually shook his finger at her. “But, mind, stay within sight of the window.”
London dipped into a small curtsey before gliding from the parlor. Honestly, her father and his friends treated women like overgrown infants. It was exceptionally infuriating. But would it be different with other men? She had no basis of comparison, outside of what she read.
Stepping outside from the hotel and walking down into the terraced garden, her exasperation dissipated like mist. Anger and frustration could not stand amidst such loveliness. Abundant oleander glowed in the darkness as it tumbled over walls, and the air carried the richness of its perfume. Little purple cyclamens lined the gravel pathways where torches had been set, should any guest decide to wander out to enjoy the nighttime pastoral. But she was alone, and had the garden entirely to herself. London took advantage of the paths, her dainty satin slippers crunching on the gravel, and wandered slowly down a walkway, always careful to keep herself in sight of the large parlor window spilling its light into the evening. London could even see her father and Fraser in animated discussion, both gesturing toward the papers in Father’s hand. Perhaps they were discussing what was to happen once they reached Delos. Neither spoke to her of detailed plans. She had but one function. Beyond that, she needed no other information, so she watched them through the glass, eternally on the outside.
She was mindful of them, but they not of her. They both stood and strode from the parlor, and disappeared somewhere else in the hotel. She blinked. Well. Clearly, Father was not as concerned about her welfare as he professed, or the threat of an evening stroll in a garden was less dire than he would have her believe.
Feeling liberated, London pressed farther into the garden, taking one of the paths off into a pretty little alcove, fragrant with rosemary. It was darker here, and she took a moment to look up at the sky, wanting to see constellations. Now that she was truly in Greece, she might feel more connected to the ancient myths that gave the stars their names. But the city was too bright. Only a crescent moon shone, and a glimmer here and there of a star. It had been better out at sea.
She would be at sea soon enough. And then taken to a completely uninhabited island; according to her father, its only occupants a small team of French archaeologists at a distance from the camp where she and the rest of their party would be based. Though the island lacked for all facilities and comforts, London eagerly anticipated her work on Delos. A little dust and some lizards did not bother her, not when the true experiences of life awaited.
London bent to sniff at the tiny pink blossoms on the rosemary bushes, but a strange awareness prickled along her neck. She straightened and looked around. Everything was silent, save for the chatter of the hotel guests inside, the slight rustle of the tall cypresses in the breeze. The distant nighttime sounds of Athens, too: carts in the street, voices in Greek bidding each other a pleasant evening. Despite this, she could not shake the notion that she was not alone.
“Hello?” she called out. “Father?” Then, “Sally?”
“Never would’ve forgiven my mother if she’d named me Sally.”
London stifled a gasp as a familiar, deep voice rumbled from the darkness. Then the lean, agile form of Ben Drayton half-emerged from the shadows.
“Mr. Drayton,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her pounding heart, “you quite startled me.”
“My apologies,” he said, still keeping largely to the shelter of night. In the dimness, she was just able to make out certain details about him. He wore the clothes he’d had on in the marketplace, definitely not dressed for dinner. Not with those tall boots that had seen much wear, the serviceable fabric of his coat. But London hardly attended to his clothing. She had told herself, in the intervening hours since seeing Mr. Drayton, that she must have embellished her memory. No man was truly that beautifully formed in face and body. A romantic fancy brought about by an exotic setting and too much time reading books at home.
Ah, but no. Her recollection had not played her false. Here, in this perfumed evening garden, he was just as athletic, just as seductively handsome, perhaps even more so. Nighttime felt appropriate, a milieu that suited him, with its promises of dalliance and danger.
She found her voice. “I did not hear you.”
He came closer, skirting the edges of light. “Rotten habit of mine, sneaking around. Used it to great effect taking strawberry tarts from the buttery when I was supposed to be in bed.”
“So I am the strawberry tart, in this analogy.”
He chuckled, warming her. “I’d never call you a tart, my lady.”
London wanted to be a little daring, almost as daring as he was. “But if I was a berry, I wonder what kind I’d be,” she said with a teasing smile.
“Something sweet and wild,” he said, voice low and husky.
London had only just mastered her breath, and his words made it catch again. Her gaze strayed toward his mouth, the mouth that said such wicked things. She made herself turn away, play with her ebony-handled fan. What was wrong with her? All she wanted to do was cross the small distance that separated her from this veritable stranger and pull his mouth down to hers, learning what he tasted like. She never even did such a thing when married. She would not now, of course, but the impulse was strong, stronger than she would have suspected in herself.
She had to turn her mind in a less…wanton direction. “Are you a guest of the hotel, Mr. Drayton?” she asked.
“No. Visiting someone at the hotel.”
She turned back and started. He stood closer so that only a few feet separated them. She did not know any man could move so silently. Perhaps he was part feline, after all. Would his body have the warmth of a large cat, as well? It seemed likely. “A friend?”
“Not a friend.”
“An acquaintance, then? Who? Perhaps I know them. We may have a friend in common.”
“Doubt it. I sincerely hope you don’t know them.”
“What disreputable company you must keep, sir.”
“Those I consider my friends are disreputable in the best ways.” He surveyed her with a long, slow perusal that lingered boldly on the exposed flesh of her arms, her shoulders. It was a look like a caress, and her skin responded in kind. No gentleman looked at a woman in such a fashion. But this Mr. Drayton, she was beginning to understand, only spoke and dressed like a gentleman. Underneath the polish he was all rogue. “Sweet and wild, indeed,” he murmured. He eyed her formal dinner gown. “A little too much splendor, though.”
“Not so splendid that I can’t cause a bit of trouble in Monastiraki,” she answered with an impish smile. “See what a scoundrel you have turned me into. I still have that piece of pottery.” She poked into the small evening reticule that dangled from her wrist, until she produced the shard and held it out to him. “My ill-gotten gains.” When he bent closer to peer at the fragment, she said, “Take it. I’ve had enough of Darius the Third.”
He
