in front of a woman.
‘Kyria, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me. I apologise that you have been put to such inconvenience by my actions, and, if in my…confusion, I blundered.’
Do not go, not until you explain what you meant…The words were so clear in her mind that for one awful moment Alessa thought she had spoken them out loud. ‘There is nothing to apologise for, my lord,’ she said calmly. ‘Xenia, hospitality to strangers, is important to us. You may best repay it by taking care of yourself. And, Roberts…’ the footman turned ‘…be careful with that arm.’
‘I will, Kyria.’ The man grinned. ‘But it’s all healed up now.’
Alessa let them all out on to the landing, but went straight back inside, leaving the door a little ajar, and waited, braced for a crash. None came, but the muttered curses rising up the stairwell added a little to her vocabulary. With a smile she closed the door and went to look out of the window down into the courtyard below. Chance was resting, one hip hitched on the edge of the fountain, apparently engaged in questioning Roberts. The footman, who was wearing a sleeveless waistcoat, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and began to roll up the sleeve, just as Spiro wandered out of the bakery door to see what was going on. Alessa’s eyebrows rose—this was going to be interesting.
‘Kyria Alessa’s a wonder with salves,’ Roberts explained in answer to Chance’s enquiry as they had hopped slowly down the stairs. He bared a forearm for inspection. In the bright sunlight the tanned skin was puckered with a pink scar. ‘The cook splashed me with boiling water three weeks ago—and look how she’s got it to heal. Hey, Spiro, you see Kyria Alessa for your back, don’t you?’
‘Ne.’ The stocky man nodded politely to Chance, subjecting him to the intense stare he was beginning to expect from the local people. He had seen him somewhere before. ‘She fixes it good now.’ The man rolled a shoulder experimentally, sending flour off his coat like snow. ‘She is a tough one, Alessa. She bangs my back hard where it is all knotted and she rubs in the ointment that stings, and she tells me not to be a baby when I shout. It makes it much better.’Of course—this was Spiro of the thumping bed head.
Chance regarded his clasped hands thoughtfully. He had managed to put his foot in it comprehensively. Both feet, in fact. Alessa had probably saved his life, she had dressed his wounds with a skill that ought to have told him something, if only he’d stopped to think beyond embarrassment at the knowledge that she had stripped him to do it—and what had he done? Leapt to the worst possible conclusion about her.
And why did you do that, you bloody fool? he asked himself savagely as the footman and the baker topped each other’s stories of how wonderful the Kyria was. Because you want her, that’s why. The first thing that enters your head when you think of her is sex.
Mr Williams strode back into the courtyard. ‘The carriage has managed to get through to the next street. Just a few more yards, my lord, if you are rested.’
‘Of course, thank you.’ Chance got upright, his hand on Roberts’ shoulder, and looked up. Far above them Alessa was leaning out of the window, framed with scarlet flowers in pots. She was watching them, her weight on her crossed arms. He thought she was smiling. Chance lifted a hand in salute and wondered if he was going to receive a plant pot in return. Instead she lifted a hand in response and he thought he glimpsed a flash of white teeth.
A forgiving woman then, or perhaps she was just enjoying the sight of his undignified exit from the courtyard and out of her life.
Chapter Four
Alessa turned from the window, the smile still playing about her lips. A stubborn man that, but one who was at least ready to admit his faults. Even from her lofty viewpoint she could read the mingled chagrin and regret on his face.
How could she blame him for the conclusion he had jumped to? And how could she explain that leap of faith, which had led him to deny what common sense told him was the disreputable truth about her?
She pulled the cauldron well clear of the fire on its hanging bracket and began to lift out the clothes and drop them into the rinsing water. She squeezed and wrung and worked her way down the mass of flimsy feminine items until she found a pair of uncompromisingly male stockings and Chance’s shirt. Her hands stilled on the fine cloth, then, with a shake of her head, she wrung them out vigorously and tossed them in with the rinsing.
When the whole lot was done and the laundry basket full, she dragged it to the foot of the stepladder that rose to a trap in the ceiling, tied the handles to the dangling rope and began to climb. As she emerged on to the flat roof high above the town she looped the rope around the pulley fixed to the parapet and hauled it up. The basket landed with a wet thump and she dragged it to the washing lines strung across the roof between the chimney stacks and the rickety vine arbour.
Doing washing was so much better in the summer, when there was hardly any smoke from the chimneys and the sun shone hot, drying and bleaching the white linens and lawns in a fraction of the time they took in the winter, dripping all over the living room.
Alessa hung out the load, then went down the ladder again for some bread and cheese and a jug of watered wine. She could spare time to rest up here in the shade and eat her luncheon. There was a shirt of Demetri’s with yet another missing button she should be mending and there was her accounts book to check through. The clock chimed, the bells only just above her level up here on the roof. Yes, she could spare an hour, then perhaps she would not feel quite so much on edge.
The sound of puffing and complaining jerked her out of her reverie. Kate Street emerged on to the roof, red-cheeked from negotiating the steep ladder. ‘Here you are! I met your two little ones on their way home and thought I’d drop in and see what you’d done with your handsome patient.’ The sound of the children drifted up from below. They were squabbling mildly over whose fault it was that there were none of the yeast buns left from yesterday.
‘Whatever time is it?’ Alessa jumped to her feet and looked round. ‘It must be past three!’
‘Half past,’ Kate confirmed, perching on the edge of the crumbling parapet with blithe unconcern for the drop beneath her. ‘And you’ve been sitting up here daydreaming for how long exactly?’
‘I haven’t been daydreaming—I’ve been eating and mending and doing my accounts.’ Alessa followed her friend’s gaze to take in the full mug with the fly floating on the surface, the cheese sweating in the sun, the shirt with the thread and loose button lying on top of it, the closed ledger. What have I been doing? ‘I must have dozed off, I’ve had a busy morning,’ she amended defensively.
Kate’s lips twitched, but all she said was, ‘His lordship’s been removed, then?’
‘Yes. The Residency staff collected him. And he is a lord, in fact—Lord Blakeney.’
‘All the better. You charged him plenty for the trouble, I hope.’
‘Certainly not! How could I? One does not charge guests, however unwitting they may be.’
‘Honestly, Alessa, sometimes I think you are more Greek than the Greeks.’
‘I am Corfiot. What else is there for me to be?’ Affronted, Alessa stalked over to peer down into the room below. ‘Dora, Demetri! Have you had a good day? I will be down in a minute.’
Two round faces appeared, tipped up to smile at her. ‘Very good,’ Demetri announced. ‘Doctor Theo says my French story was incredible.’ Alessa kept her face straight.
‘And your English spelling?’
‘Not so incredible,’ the boy admitted.
‘And, Dora—are you coming up here?’
‘I had a good day too. The nuns have got new kittens. May we go and play?’
‘If you like. Take your hats—and stay in the courtyard.’
The thunder of feet heading for the