The English Witch by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

proper British valet, Mr. Trevelyan, he'll be obliged to shoot himself as soon as he claps eyes on you."
    Basil glanced down ruefully at his raffish attire: Turkish-style trousers, limp cotton shirt the Albanians called a kam-isha, and travel-stained cloak. "Well, you see, my costume doesn't look like anything in particular, and so I can't be categorised, which makes men careful how they treat me. I may, you know, be mad."
    Miss Ashmore assured him, with a little grin, of her certainty that he was.
    "But sane enough to hope Rogers has kept my baggage safe from these rogues. I don't know why he shouldn't, as he's a worse rogue than any of them. At any rate, he'll not deign to notice my disgraceful appearance. He'll take me immediately in hand, and the next time you see me you won't recognise me."
    "Ah, then I shan't be obliged to speak to you."
    "In which case, I shall travel as I am," was the prompt retort. "But here we are, speaking of my sartorial tragedies, when I am on pins and needles to hear about this Cassius-Talleyrand of yours. And of Napoleon's Fatal Flaw. Is he a tragic figure, do you think?"
    It wanted very little to coax her to talk. She led Basil on back through history, from Buonaparte and Talleyrand to Caesar to Alexander to Alexander's father, Philip of Macedon. Basil was content to go where she led, though he teased and questioned and tried to undermine her theories. He liked to listen to her, liked exploring with her the characters of those who'd made history, and those who'd made art and literature of history.
    What had Dhimitri's relatives called her? The English witch. She wove spells, they claimed, entrapping young men with her beauty, but to Basil she was Scheherazade. He could have listened to her forever...and oh, how he wished she could keep him company through his long, restless nights.
    They reached Prevesa by late afternoon—too soon—and he was jolted out of his trance as they prepared to disembark. Deaf to her protests and oblivious to Dhimitri's congratulatory smile, Basil lifted her out of the boat and waded to shore with her in his arms. No, he thought, he was under no spell. He only liked to hear her talk because he wanted her, and he wanted her because he'd been lonely too many months. There was no spell. Only Desire, and that must fade once they were home.
    Lefka, Gjergi, and Stefan had stayed behind in Saranda, but Gregor and Dhimitri refused to part from their charges until those fragile English creatures were safely aboard their ship. A British merchant vessel lay in the harbour, awaiting the escort of a brig of war which was scheduled to arrive the next day and depart the day following.
    While Mr. Trevelyan made arrangements for passage, Dhimitri saw to accommodations. The young Albanian had distant relatives in the town who were very well-to-do. Their spacious and well-furnished home was, he insisted, infinitely preferable to the Spartan lodgings of the English vice-consul. Too tired to argue, the travellers agreed to accept the hospitality.
    After dinner, their hosts proposed that the Englishmen take a stroll through the town. Alexandra helped the womenfolk wash the simple dinner utensils and then decided to take her own quiet walk through the garden. She had, after all, a great deal to think about.
    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