Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple

fallacy I do. Certainly in the varied shades of relations between men and women. On the strength of that advantage may I give you some advice?’

      ‘I don’t think I will appreciate it, will I?’

      He laughed and the storm grey turned warm and inviting again, sinking her further.

      ‘Good point. I have had reams of advice flung at me by my father and appreciated none of it. Still, you can do what I do and ignore it. For what it is worth I suggest you never depend on your husband to fulfil all, or even most, of your needs. That is a recipe for disaster. Men are rather useless fellows and tend to buckle under pressure, especially when that pressure is applied by women. Especially by someone like you who is far too strong for their own good and as argumentative as one of those philosophers who lived in a cave or a barrel or wherever. Learn to row your own boat. There, if only you listen to my advice I’d consider my debt paid in full.’

      She took a deep breath. She had made a promise after all.

      ‘I am not married.’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘I’m not married. You assumed I was because of the veils.’

      ‘I assumed... But you said...’

      ‘I said the veils are bridal veils and they are. The King ordered me to wear them while I tend to you, for my protection. After all, we did not know anything about you. Well, we still don’t since you won’t even tell us your name, but... But I am not married.’

      Her hands were clenched so tightly together they hurt. She unclenched and flexed them. There was no need to feel so horrid and guilty and...exposed.

      The silence stretched and stretched and stretched and she leapt into that yawning pit.

      ‘I didn’t mean to lie. Well, I didn’t lie. I just... It seemed easier. Safer. Men respect married women. I can see that on the island. I mean, they wouldn’t go into someone else’s house without being invited and it is just that way with women, right? We are considered property, aren’t we? So even with Yannis outside it seemed safer to allow you to think...’

      ‘I see. And for some reason you now think it is safe to tell me the truth?’

      Her heartbeat thundered like a horse down a mountain, far too fast and stumbling over rocks. She didn’t feel safe. She felt terrified. But not of him.

      ‘I don’t know, but I promised myself if you mentioned marriage again I would tell the truth. I don’t enjoy lying, not even by omission.’

      ‘For someone who doesn’t enjoy lying you are very adept at it. Are you quite certain the only reason you didn’t share this minor little detail is because you wished to remain...safe?’

      His anger was as cold and hard as a steel rapier being shoved slowly through her lungs.

      ‘What other reason could there be?’

      ‘Precisely what I am asking myself. Athena. Is that your name or is that a lie as well?’

      ‘That is what the King calls me. The Princess calls me Tina for short.’

      ‘I see how this works. Not a lie, but not quite the truth—rather you offer with one hand while you hide something with the other. You would make a fine cardsharp, or perhaps I should introduce you to Oswald, he would appreciate your skill.’

      ‘Who is Oswald?’

      ‘Leading me off the trail again, Athena? If you wish. Oswald is my uncle and the man who sends me on the errands which have left the trail of scars you were admiring.’

      ‘Was he why you were in Alexandria and why you won’t tell us your name?’

      ‘If you wished to know my name you only had to ask. My name is Alexander, but my friends call me Alex.’

      She knew he was doing precisely what he had accused her of doing—distracting her from her quarry and with an offer empty of any real value, but it worked. Her mind wrapped itself about the sound and colour of his name, her mind filling with its fire. Alex.

      ‘Alex.’

      He breathed in, deep and sharp, and for a moment she surfaced from her internal fog, worrying something had jogged his wound, but as she reached forward instinctively he caught her hand and they froze.

      She waited for him to release her wrist, but his hand slid under hers, raising it. A lock of his hair, touched with gold from the afternoon sun streaming in the narrow castle windows, fell over his brow as he leaned forward. It was like a picture from a book—the gallant knight bowing over a maiden’s hand. Until his lips skimmed over the back of her hand and came to rest just above her knuckles. She had once scalded her hand boiling herbs and it had also taken her a shocked second to realise she was in agony and snatch her hand away. She tried to do so now, but he just tightened his clasp.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice wavered a little and he looked up and she saw danger in his eyes, an intent concentration, like a hawk hovering over a field mouse, wondering whether it was worth the plunge. But his words were almost casual.

      ‘Thanking you. Is showing gratitude not acceptable on Illiakos?’

      ‘Not like that.’

      ‘That’s a pity. Perhaps you should have let the lie lie. You were right your married status was an effective barrier to flirtation. Now there is nothing to stop me from telling you I find myself fantasising about what you look like under that curtain, is there?’

      ‘You would only be disappointed. I am not in the least remarkable.’

      ‘I have had a little experience with women, my dear, and though I don’t know what you look like, believe me when I say that you underestimate yourself. And if I were your brother I wouldn’t make do with that lug Yannis napping on a bench outside the room.’

      The humour that did so much damage to her resolve transformed his eyes from ice to the colour of thunderclouds, but even though his hold softened, she was no longer trying to escape it. His hand encompassed her wrist, his fingers marking her thudding pulse. She knew he couldn’t see her, but she felt he saw right through her, not merely through the veils, but through her skin, to the flow of blood in her veins, to her very thoughts, chaotic and forbidden.

      She tried desperately to regain her advantage as his nurse.

      ‘I will have you know I do not need Yannis to see to my welfare. I can see to it myself, so you had best tread carefully.’

      A glint of mischief sparked in his eyes and his hand tucked hers into his as if it was the most natural thing in the world to sit there, hands clasped.

      ‘Or what?’

      ‘Or...’

      She couldn’t think of anything. Not just a reasonable punishment, but of anything but the surprisingly sweet mischief in his eyes and that sense of rightness in sitting there with him, his fingers caressing the core of her palm and sending shivers of heat up her arm, her body aligning, readying to be his.

      ‘I don’t think I would mind any retribution you could deliver, you know.’ His voice rasped over nerves that were already dancing. The mere thought that he might feel the same attraction was as intoxicating as his touch. He was probably just playing with her as he no doubt played with all the women he claimed to have experienced. But in her mind a common bond of need had snared them both, inescapable.

      ‘I would never wish to hurt you,’ she replied, her own voice just as hoarse at the depth of that truth. The mischief in his eyes doused immediately, the shadows under his cheekbones becoming even more pronounced. When he spoke now his voice scared her, it was deep and raw, as compelling as an edict from the gods.

      ‘Take off the veil. I need to see you.’

      She shook her head—it wasn’t just that he would see plump and drab Christina James, the daughter of an English doctor, but that he would see her thoughts in her eyes as clear as spring