The English Witch Page 2

  Alexandra's Albanian was not very fluent, but then, it was a difficult language. Papa theorised that it was traceable to the ancient Illyrian tongue, preserved, despite repeated foreign conquests, out of sheer obstinacy. For instance, while the Turks had held the country in an undependable state of submission since the death of the great Albanian patriot Skanderbeg, in the fifteenth century, only a handful of Turkish words had been absorbed. Albanian was Albanian still, and its inflexions were Alexandra's despair. Nonetheless, though her speech could send her woman-servant, the jovial Lefka, into fits of laughter, Alexandra's understanding was quite good. Certainly she comprehended enough to follow the arguments going on in the room above.

  The debate had continued all day, and their voices carried easily down to the shed where she waited, because they hadn't troubled to lower them. The father demanded that the English girl be returned to her father. The brothers shouted about shame and disgrace. Even the mother pleaded with her favourite, her youngest son, while the other women of the household complained that the English girl was a witch. Had she not been forced to leave Tepelena because she made the young men crazy?

  So the battle had raged while the English witch sat on the dirt floor of a shed that smelted strongly of goats, and tried to understand why men were so pig-headed. There was her normally logical Papa forcing two incompatible and unenthusiastic persons into marriage. Here was Dhimitri trying to force her to marry him. How on earth had she imagined Aunt Clem could help her out of such a pickle?

  Morning heated up into afternoon, and afternoon darkened into dusk while the family battled on. The odds were against Dhimitri, but he was spoiled and headstrong. A while ago, he'd raved that if his family would not accept Skandara as his wife, he'd go away with her to live among strangers. He'd go, he shouted, to Pogradec, and make his living by fishing in the lake. His mother shrieked. His father screamed at him to go and be damned, and the others made a deafening chorus. Then, suddenly, everything was still. She heard new voices break the silence. Her spirits rose, only to sink again. They were not familiar voices.

  What if Papa and Randolph had been hurt...or killed, all because of a young man she'd thought was content to gaze adoringly at her as he sang his mournful little love songs? Who'd have guessed he'd dare abduct the daughter of Ali Pasha's honoured guest?

  Evidently he respected the great Pasha as little as he did the mourning Alexandra still wore. Lefka had promised that would keep the men at a respectful distance, but it hadn't.

  Now nothing short of a miracle could save Alexandra from marrying the hot-headed youth. She'd be treated as a servant, a pack animal. She'd have to submit to his hot, eager embraces—and have his children! God help her, she'd kill herself first. She'd throw herself from a ledge. In Ojirokastra, after all, there were ledges aplenty.

  A more delicate female than Alexandra Ashmore might have given way to tears. Certainly she had reason enough, but she refused to cry despite the horrible ache in her throat. She was wishing for her pistol—shooting herself was preferable to hurtling down from a precipice—when the door creaked open.

  It was one of Dhimitri's brothers. She didn't know which, there being seven plus innumerable sisters, all of whom looked alike. Dhimitri stood out mainly because he was the giant of the family and understood a little English.

  This brother was ordering her to follow him.

  He led her up into the house proper and on to the large, sparsely furnished room where the family was accustomed to gather and were all gathered now: parents, siblings, spouses, and diverse aunts and uncles. There was, moreover, another Albanian she didn't know, speaking in the dialect of the north, and another man whose hair was sun-bleached gold. He must also come from the north, where so much of the population was fair, though his costume resembled nothing she'd seen before, north or south. For a moment, in the room's dim light, he seemed a golden Macedonian, like those who centuries ago had swept down from the mountains. As he turned his tanned, beautifully sculpted face towards her, she noted that his eyes were very unusual. Amber, with a slight upward slant, they reminded her of the eyes of a cat.

  They were watchful, too, like a cat's eyes. As they lit upon her, the expression turned to one of joyful recognition, and she was astonished to hear him cry in cultured British accents, "Alexandra, my love, you are safe."

  Before she had time to think how to react, he crossed the room, threw his arms around her, and crushed her to him. The suddenness of the onslaught made her gasp, but sensing quickly the role she was to play, she took her lead from him and returned his hug with feigned enthusiasm. His ironic smile made her blush as he drew away from her to gesture towards their suspicious audience.

  "My darling, I have been trying to explain to these good people that I am your own Basil, your betrothed, come at last to take you home to be my wife. The trouble is Gregor cannot make himself understood, and that angry young man over there"—he indicated an enraged Dhimitri, now being held back by three brothers—"seems to think that you are his intended bride. Would you, my sweet, be kind enough to explain to them how it is with us?"

  Though it was a tad daunting to have what seemed like a hundred pairs of suspicious eyes fixed upon her, she began, in Albanian even more halting than usual. She was not quite sure what she said—nor were the members of the clan, as they tried to puzzle out her bizarre grammatical constructions—but it was something about being promised to each other for years.

  Though the others appeared satisfied with this incoherent babble, a red-faced Dhimitri demanded to know why her father claimed she was promised to that other one. He meant, of course, Mr. Burnham. In response, Alexandra promptly invented some nonsense about Basil's early poverty, and how he'd gone to seek his fortune. Basil smiled as his dragoman translated this with some difficulty, for she told the truth, all unwittingly. She went on to explain how she'd promised to wait for him. Her Papa wanted her to marry Mr. Burnham, but she didn't want Mr. Burnham. Now, she told them, as she gazed up at Basil with what she hoped was a look of adoration, her own true love had come for her as he'd promised. There was more murmuring, as the assembled audience struggled with her garbled prose, and then there were sounds of agreement.

  Her would-be fiancé now turned to her with a look of such passionate longing that she was momentarily breathless.

  "I think, my love," he said softly, "that the parents are happy to believe in our star-crossed love. But Dhimitri wants convincing." As though unable to contain his feelings another moment, Basil wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.

  It was not the make-believe kiss Alexandra was expecting, but a long, deep, dizzyingly thorough kiss that, when he'd finally done, left her stunned, overwarm, and breathing very hard.

  Basil, meanwhile, was persuading himself that Dhimitri was still skeptical. Miss Ashmore was an uncommonly attractive young woman, surprisingly curvaceous under that shapeless black rag she wore. Though her chestnut curls were matted and her face was smudged with dirt and she did smell faintly of goats, he tightened his arms around her, preparatory to supplying more conclusive evidence.

  Dhimitri's anguished cry stopped him. “Mjaft!” the young man wailed. “Mjaft! Mem dhe largoju prefmeje!”

  Basil looked at Alexandra questioningly.

  "He says, 'Enough,' and tells you to take me and go."

  "That's a mercy," was the muttered reply.

  With one arm still about Miss Ashmore's lovely shoulders, Basil hurried her out of the house.

  Chapter Two

  "I'm sorry I could not procure another horse on such short notice, Miss Ashmore. You'll have to ride with me. But I promise I won't fling you across the saddle."

  Too emotionally drained to reply, she let him lift her onto the mount. They rode for some minutes with Gregor behind them, before she recovered sufficiently to ask where they were going.

  "To meet up with your father. This business called for cool heads, and Gregor persuaded him to await us in the next village. I'm afraid that means we've
a night's ride ahead of us. At any rate, they're all safe—including your horse. Not that I'd have any objections to continuing our present mode of travel the whole way to Prevesa."

  His breath was warm at her neck, and his low, coaxing tone made her feel a little anxious. It was dark, and both these men were strangers. But she was too tired to be truly frightened.

  "At this point, sir, I shouldn't care whether I was flung across the saddle or trudging behind. So long as I can get free of this horrid town." She turned to look at him. "Who are you, anyway?"

  "Your fiancé, silly girl."

  "Yes." She brushed this away. "That was very clever of you, but who are you really—and what brings you to Gjirokastra? The English rarely go beyond the coastal cities."

  "Ah, yes. The country, according to Gibbon, ‘within sight of Italy is less known than the interior of America.’”

  "You've read Gibbon?" she asked, in some surprise.

  "Yes, but I got my quote from Childe Harold. If it wasn't what Gibbon said or Gibbon who said it, we must blame Byron for yet something else. But that is neither here nor there. My name—in answer to one question—is Basil Trevelyan. I am here—in answer to the other question—because Aunt Clem told me I must come and get you. And Aunt Clem, as you must know, is always to be obeyed."

  "Aunt Clem? You mean Lady Bertram?"

  "Yes."

  "Good heavens! She sent you all the way here—but I never meant—" She bit her lip. She had meant—or hoped—after all, that Lady Bertram would perform a miracle. And here it—or he—was.

  "It was not so great a distance, Miss Ashmore. I happened to be in Greece—or what one assumes is Greece, though you can hardly tell nowadays."

  "So Lady Bertram wrote to you. Then you must know something of my story."

  "Oh, yes." He didn't think it worth mentioning that her letter now reposed in the pocket of his worn cloak. "Of course, I was puzzled concerning what I could do to help you. My skills do not lie in coaxing parents out of marital arrangements for their offspring. But I have, as Aunt Clem knows, a weakness for intrigue, and the challenge appealed to me. So, here I am."

  Though it was rather embarrassing that he knew of her plight, her sense of humour soon came to the fore. It was a ridiculous plight, was it not? With a rueful smile she said, "Still, you did not expect, I think, to have to rescue me from abductors."

  "No, I hadn't anticipated adventures—but then, 'Fierce are Albania's children,' according to Byron. Shall I expect more adventures, Miss Ashmore? I wouldn't mind a little warning."

  "Good heavens I should hope not. I can't think what possessed Dhimitri."

  "You can't?" His voice grew softer. "How odd, for I can. Yet he gallantly gave you up to your own true love. One gathers that he did not think Mr. Burnham your own true love."

  "I suppose you're right. Dhimitri did insist that he was rescuing me."

  "Then bless his romantic heart. He believed the show we put on for him—and he's given me an idea."

  Since it was most unlikely she'd fall off a horse proceeding at this slow pace, Miss Ashmore wondered why, as they conversed, he felt it necessary to press so close. Or why he must lower his voice to that insinuating timbre when there was only the dragoman to hear. She was unable at the moment to devise a polite way to put these questions to him, considering he'd just saved her from a Fate Worse Than Death. Instead, she asked what idea he had.

  "I may have hit upon a way to confound your father's plans for your future. Was he in London during your one Season?"

  "No, he came back only just before Mama passed away, at the end of June."

  "Then he doesn't know I wasn't in London either. In that case, suppose you formed an attachment then, which you’ve kept secret all this time – for precisely the reasons we gave Dhimitri and his family."

  "An attachment? But what—oh, I see. You think to convince Papa..." She trailed off, wondering why the idea made her uneasy.

  "That your heart is otherwise engaged."

  "I doubt it will make any difference. He's very set on Mr. Burnham."

  "Ah, but he hasn't even met me yet, Miss Ashmore. Shall I tell you my credentials?" Without waiting for a reply, he began to enumerate his advantages in ringing tones that made Gregor sit up and take notice. While Basil himself had no title, his first cousin was the seventh Earl of Hartleigh. Furthermore, the Trevelyan family could be traced back to Norman times. His Aunt Clem, daughter of an earl, had maintained her status by marrying the Earl of Bertram, whose own line was equally ancient and honourable.

  "Moreover," Basil went on, "in addition to being monstrous well connected, I am now quite plump in the pocket—which makes me a perfectly unexceptionable catch. Add to these my considerable charm and a reputed talent for making black appear white—and I cannot imagine any Papa saying me nay."

  "But what of your character, sir?" Alexandra asked sternly, imitating her father at his stuffiest. "Mr. Burnham is honest as the day is long, a dedicated scholar and a gentleman, an earnest and honourable man."

  "Deuce take it—you have me out there, madam. You see, my character is as black as black can be. I am an incorrigible liar, a wastrel, and—I beg your pardon, ma'am, but the truth must be told—a womaniser. Selfish and fickle, I am, as Aunt Clem will be quick to tell you, a perfectly dreadful boy."

  Alexandra was able to suppress her gasp, but couldn't help turning to look at him in disbelief. The dreadful boy was smiling at her so angelically that she couldn't tell whether he was roasting her or not.

  "Well then," she answered, careful to keep her voice light, "you'd better not tell Papa that."

  "Of course not. I am a liar, after all. And a very good one, too, I might add."

  Doubtless he was. He'd made such a good show of a passionate embrace that even now, thinking back on it, she felt a little dizzy. But then, what did she know of such things? One or two gentlemen had stolen kisses from her, but those were hasty affairs, easily halted by the simple expedient of stomping on a highly polished boot.

  To have employed like measures in his case would have meant disaster. Consequently, his was the first full-length kiss she'd experienced. She wasn't sure whether she'd liked it or not. There had been a rush of sensation not altogether unpleasant. That sensation had made her feel powerless, and the loss of control frightened her. Though not nearly as large as Dhimitri—not even so very many inches taller than herself— Mr. Trevelyan was alarmingly strong. She was by no means a frail little thing, and yet it had seemed he might easily crush her to pieces if he liked. Now, as he held her too close, too tightly, she was acutely conscious of his lean, muscular form and of a tension between them that made her breath come and go more rapidly than usual.

  "Well then, will I do?" His voice dropped to a whisper again, and his mouth seemed terribly close to her ear.

  Fortunately, she'd had some experience with flirtatious gentlemen, a species of which Basil Trevelyan appeared to be a member.

  Taking herself firmly in hand, Alexandra answered with cool dignity. “I suppose you must, since there is no one else, Mr. Trevelyan. However, I am puzzled why you must hold me so tight. I assure you I am in no danger of falling off your horse. Unless you think to begin the performance already. But Papa is still miles away, so there really is no need."

  "I was practising, Miss Ashmore," came the amused reply.

  "I doubt you require any practice. You have quite convinced me of your aptitude for this sort of thing."

  "Then perhaps you want practice," he persisted.

  "I had much rather you trusted me to muddle along. I promise to follow your lead exactly."

  He gave a forlorn sigh. "Which is all to say you don't trust me a bit. And after all we've been to each other. Cruel girl. I am yours to command." He loosened his hold on her. "There. Is that better?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "Well, it seems a great deal worse to me. Let me know if you change your mind."

  "There is very little likelihood of that. Now perhaps you
'd be kind enough to change the subject."

  "Heartless girl. You forbid me to hold you, and then you forbid me even to flirt with you. This is quite the worst engagement I've ever experienced."

  "Ah, then you’ve been engaged before, Mr. Trevelyan?"

  "Very briefly."

  The terse reply and the tense silence that followed told her she'd inadvertently stumbled upon an interesting topic. He gave her only a moment to ponder this little mystery before he went on, in a more normal voice, to ask what had brought the Ashmores to Albania.

  Alexandra explained that they'd come at the express invitation of Ali Pasha himself. Evidently, when Byron had visited, either he or Mr. Hobhouse had mentioned Sir Charles's work to the great Pasha of Egypt. Ali, being an Albanian and in a humour at the time to cultivate the English, had graciously invited the scholar to explore the little-known country.

  "And Dhimitri dared to abduct the daughter of Ali Pasha's honoured guest?"

  "The Albanians are afraid of nothing, Mr. Trevelyan. It is fortunate you were so inventive. Papa is no diplomat and might very well have threatened them with Ali. They would have promptly taken Dhimitri's part and laughed at the danger, because the Albanians are not only fearless, but proud and clannish as well. Once Ali got to hear of it—he hears of everything, you know, for all that he's in Egypt now—he'd send his men to kill everyone in the town just to set an example."

  "Yes, I understand he roasts his friends on a spit if they annoy him. Well then, it only goes to show, as I've always maintained, that kisses are infinitely preferable to bloodshed."

  She could hardly disagree with this pacifistic opinion, yet she dared not concur enthusiastically either. It was plain, even from the small sampling he'd provided of his talents, that his charm was, as he claimed, considerable, and she'd rather not have him exert any more of it upon her.

  In other circumstances she might have enjoyed a lighthearted flirtation. But there were only the three of them on a dark road, and already his behaviour had been overly civil. He'd been very slow to release his hold on her and was only amused at her reproof. Besides, he'd admitted to being a liar and a womaniser and other dreadful things. While that, too, could be a lie, it was wiser to assume it was not and to be cautious.