The Importance of Being Alice (4 page)

“Fortnight.” A little giggle slipped out. I was definitely loopy from lack of sleep. “That's such a British word. I watch a lot of BBC America.”

He sighed, and closed the lid of the laptop. “Why don't you get some sleep? You look as if you're about to fall over, and your eyelids keep closing.”

I blinked at him a couple of times, waiting for a synapse or two to fire in my brain. Now that I was safely ensconced on the boat, the last dregs of my energy seemed to evaporate into nothing. I felt as boneless as a Chicken McNugget. “What, go to bed right here in front of you?” I shook my head. There was something I had wanted to say, some point of importance. . . . “Oh, I remember. Sleeping. That's important. We have to have some rules if we're going to sleep together.”

“I would take umbrage with the phrase you've chosen, but I can see it would completely escape your notice. What rules do you have?”

“No trying to get busy with me.” I gave him an owlish look. “And don't say the thought would never so much
as cross your mind, because you already hurt my feelings by not denying that Patrick said mean things to you about me, and if I thought that I repulsed you to the point where you would rather take a bath in scalding hot acid than try to get it on with me, then I would cry. A lot.”

“Isn't the ‘scalding hot' qualifier a bit redundant? An acid bath would be sufficiently horrible so as to make the temperature immaterial.”

I stared at him again. It was all I could do to process the words he spoke. “You're really not going to give up even one thing, one itty-bitty word of comfort that would make me feel better about having to share my romantic cabin in romantic Europe with a total stranger, are you?”

“I'm told I don't snore,” he said after a moment's thought.

“That's it,” I said, standing up, my brain pretty much shutting down with exhaustion. “I'm going to jump in the river. You're welcome to my half of the cabin. Enjoy my clothes and my books and my secret stash of chocolate, as well.”

He spoke just as I reached the door. “I speak with Patrick on average twice a year, and then most of our conversation takes the form of catching up with fellow schoolmates, and inquiries about my family, of which there are a great number. Despite what you may think, Patrick told me nothing other than he had found someone new, and his trip with you was off.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and slumped against the door, his words hurting me in ways I doubt he could imagine.

I weighed the option of the river with the idea of flying home to my small, attic apartment, still and quiet and filled with unpacked boxes. An empty lifetime of grief
stretched before me, one in which I had no place to be, friends who were busy with their own lives, and no real reason for going on. Neither of those possibilities held any charm, which left me with the only other choice.

I'd room with a stranger. A handsome, titled, English stranger who clearly didn't like me, and who wasn't the man who was supposed to be there.

“Fine,” I said, collapsing fully clothed onto the bed. I lifted my head to glare at him. “But if I so much as catch you peeking at me when I'm sleeping, I'll smash your laptop right over your head.”

One of his eyebrows lifted as he returned to his work. “You'd fit in very well with the early Ainslies.”

“In your dreams, Baron.”

I was asleep before the last word left my lips, but in my head, it was a perfect exit line.

Diary of Alice Wood

Day One (yes, again)

I
decided that yesterday doesn't count as day one, what with the horrible surprise that Patrick had given away his ticket. Given it away just like it was a minor little vacation, and not one that was supposed to end in our marriage.

However, all that is over. Today is fresh-start day, number two, but we won't focus on that, because Therapist Nora says that it's a drain on psychic energies to allow negativity to take over one's thoughts. Or something along those lines—I have to admit to tuning out when she goes into her psychic energy spiel.

“Day One,” I said aloud when I woke up almost twelve hours later. I was still lying on top of the bed, fully clothed, although evidently my new roomie had taken pity on me and draped a blanket over me. I looked around the small
cabin, saying aloud, “He's not here. Huh. I wonder if I snored him out of the room.”

“Not quite, although you did snore.” Elliott emerged from a minuscule bathroom that I vaguely remembered visiting in the middle of the night. “You appeared to be extremely tired. I assume you are feeling much better, and will be leaving the cabin shortly?”

“Subtlety isn't your forte, is it?” I asked as I took off my shoes and socks, and used them to gesture at his laptop, already open and running on the tiny table. “What sort of man works on his vacation?”

“One who is more interested in the quiet offered by an empty cabin,” he said, his gaze drifting over to frown at the explosion of clothes that poured out of my travel bag. I remembered his travel iron and neat socks, and smiled to myself. I wasn't an overly messy person, but tiredness the night before, and a natural tendency to get distracted easily, had left my side of the room far from tidy.

I tossed my dirty socks and shoes on the ground next to my bag, and knelt down to dig out a light dress and clean underwear. “Like I said, not strong on the subtlety. What is it, exactly, that you plan on doing once I'm out of the cabin? Because I'll know if you touched my things.”

He looked shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

I waved a pair of undies at him. “If you have some sort of lingerie fetish, I'll know.” I thought a moment, and tucked my shoes into my bag. “Or feet fetish. My stuff is off-limits, OK? I don't want to have to keep locking my bag, but I will if I have to.”

Elliott's shoulders stiffened. “If you were a man, I'd take offense with the suggestion that I have any desire to either fondle or steal your belongings.”

“If I were a man, I'd have a problem with the fact that I had packed lingerie.”

He stared at me in incomprehension.

“It was a little joke.” I gave him a doubtful look, then continued. “What sort of books do you write?”

He sighed the sigh of a martyred man. “Fiction. And since I know it will be your next question, yes, I am published. I write espionage novels featuring a deaf former spy named Liam.”

“Wow, that sounds . . . intense. Is espionage just an interest, or are you a former spy, too?”

“I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”

I stared in horror at him. Was he serious, or just pulling my leg? He didn't look like he was joking, but then, some people had great deadpan delivery of lines like that.

No, he was joking. He had to be joking. He was a baron, after all. He couldn't be a baron and a spy. Could he?

“As it is, I am very late on a book, and since my family's activities ensure my home is less than conducive to productivity of any kind, I accepted Patrick's offer of two weeks in which to write unmolested.” He gave me a stern look. “Despite the snoring, and the fact that you were evidently raised without such things as wardrobes, bureaus, or other devices intended to store clothes outside of a suitcase, I anticipate getting a good chunk of this book finished by the time we arrive in Budapest.”

“I was supposed to get married in Budapest,” I said sadly, thinking about all the work I'd done arranging with the U.S. embassy to have the marriage in Hungary.

The expression on his face was almost comical in its surprise. “I am not looking for a wife.”

“Ha ha,” I told him, grabbing my cosmetic bag and
clean clothes. “Ha ha ha. Like I'd ever consider marrying a man who has Patrick for a friend. Oh, it is to laugh.”

“Good.” He looked back at his laptop. “Just so we understand each other.”

“There's nothing on this earth that could convince me to marry a man who obviously holds with all sorts of outdated notions of nobility, and has a gorgeous upper-crust accent, and a bad habit of treating people like they're servants even though they paid for half the room,” I said without a care for grammar or proper pronoun usage, annoyed that he had dismissed me so completely. “I'm going to take a shower, and then have some breakfast, and then yes, you can have the cabin all to yourself. Europe, Mr. Lord Elliott, is out there, and I have no intention of missing it.”

“It's Lord Ainslie, actually. Elliott, eighth Baron Ainslie of Ainslie Castle, if you want to be exact. The honorific is
my lord
.”

“Power to the people! Up with the masses!
Vive la révolution!
” I said dramatically, flinging open the door to the bathroom. The warm air, vaguely piney and woodsy in scent, wrapped around me. “Day One calls!”

“That's from the French Revolution, not American. And it's technically day two,” he called after me. “You missed dinner, last night, which was, according to the literature provided, the first official day of the tour.”

“The day one reference was for my diary. I'm keeping one,” I said, pausing. “My therapist, Nora, says that it's good for your chakras to quantify your emotions, so that you don't get blocked up.” I waved a vague hand around my torso. “You know, chakra-wise.”

A horrified expression crawled across his face. “You're not one of those New Age followers, are you? I should
warn you that I have a strong aversion to incense and smudged sage.”

“I'm not, actually, but my therapist is, and since she was free via the local mental health clinic, which I was forced to access due to the fact that Patrick betrayed me and kicked me out of the condo we shared, and generally acted like a complete asshat, I'm stuck with whatever sort of therapist I can get.”

Elliott looked away quickly, and I realized that just because I had reason to be mean to Patrick, he didn't.

“Sorry. I shouldn't have bad-mouthed your friend like that. I'm sure if you're not female, and he doesn't ask you to live with him, and then later cancel a planned prewedding trip down various romantic rivers ending up in a wedding in Budapest, he's nice enough.”

I thought for a moment he wasn't going to respond, but just as I decided to leave him to his muse, he said, “Actually, I've always thought he was a bit of an arse. At least so far as his attitude toward women goes.”

“Really? Well, I guess it's good to know I'm not alone in one thing. Regardless, I should be out of your hair soon.”

The thought struck me, as I went about my daily ablutions, that Elliott had awfully nice hair for a man who'd take someone else's ticket. It wasn't long, but had a small curl to it that made you think about running your fingers through it.

“Not that I have any intention of doing so,” I told my reflection in the steamy mirror. “Even if I was looking for a man, and I'm certainly not that stupid, he would be off the table. He's friend to a rat bastard.”

It was just a shame, too. How many bona fide lords does a girl meet? And how many of them have BBC
voices, and nice faces, and curly hair that looks soft and silky and utterly gropeworthy?

“Especially since he realizes that Patrick is a boob,” I told myself as I finished drying my hair, and turned first one way, then the other to make sure that my first real day in Europe wouldn't be ruined by having the hem of my sundress tucked up into the back of my underwear. I grabbed a little cotton shrug, fluffed up my bosomage at the memory of Elliott's hair, and went back into the cabin proper. Elliott was working at his laptop.

“Are you going up for breakfast?”

“No.”

He didn't bother to even look at me when he spoke, but I could see his chocolate brown eyebrows pulled together in irritation. No doubt he had the morning crankies. Well, there was one sure fix for that.

“I can bring you back something if you like. I gather breakfast is a buffet situation. What sorts of things do you like?”

“I don't need anything.” His jaw tightened as he continued to type with dogged determination.

“I know everyone is different, metabolically speaking, but I've always found that I'm much more creative, and have much more oomph, if I eat breakfast. And it's no trouble to get you a plate of fruit and pastries, assuming they have that, and I can't imagine they wouldn't. A few carbs and some fruit should give you all the energy you need to write like the wind.”

“What I need is solitude!”

“Jeez, I was just trying to be nice!”

I gathered up my travel wallet, a guidebook, and a wounded sense of martyrdom, and prepared to enjoy the first day of my new life.

“Forgive me, that was rude.”

I stopped at the door, glancing back at him. He made a vague gesture of apology. “I didn't mean to snap at you that way.”

“I get snappish when I'm hungry. Have you eaten yet?”

“No.” It was clear he didn't want to admit it, but after a moment of his fingers twitching, he turned off the laptop, and stood up. “Perhaps you're correct. A few minutes' delay while I breakfast isn't going to hurt my output.”

He followed after me as I left the cabin. As we made our way down the hall to the stairs leading to the upper level, I couldn't help but ask, “So, about your spy novels—are you a James Bond fan, too?”

“Not particularly. I took up writing fiction after translating a couple of books. I realized that there was more chance of financial success in writing novels than in translating them.”

I relaxed. He had to be joking earlier about killing me. Translators didn't go around offing innocent tourists. “That's really interesting. How many languages do you speak?”

“Four other than English. I have a knack for languages.”

“I am seriously envious right now,” I said, trying not to dwell on the fact that three years of Spanish in school left me with little more than the ability to order off a Mexican restaurant menu. “Wait, you had a job? A regular job? But you're almost royalty.”

“I'm a baron. That's the lowest level of peerage other than a baronet.”

I waved a hand. “Pfft. You're Lord Ainslie of
Ainslieville. You should spend your days wandering around your grounds and letting the peasants tug their forelocks at you, and all that kind of stuff.”

“The town is actually called Ainston, and most of its residents would burst out laughing if you told them to tug their forelocks.”

“A proud, simple people, eh?”

“Proud and fiercely independent, yes.”

A sudden thought struck me as we climbed the stairs. “Do you get to do that droit thing?”

“What droit thing?”

We emerged into a smallish sitting area dotted with several round tables that were identical to the one in our cabin. To the right was a door with a sign informing all that the dining room was open for meal service.

“That thing where the lord of the land gets to sleep with all the newly married women.” I eyed him. I could just imagine all those lusty brides ogling him and hopping into his bed in order to get their motors started. So to speak.

He gave me a look that spoke volumes. “
Droit du seigneur
is a myth, Alice. It didn't really exist.”

“It was in
Braveheart
!”

“As were a great many other events that bore no resemblance to what actually took place during William Wallace's life. What is it with you Americans and your fascination with men in kilts?” He shook his head, holding open the door for me to enter the dining room.

“You just said it—men in kilts. Mmrowr. Oooh, nice buffet.”

But as I picked up an empty plate to fill, I was stopped by a piercing voice.

“And there is our last missing couple,” Tiffany said
from across the dining room. Five square tables filled the room, leaving only one side free for the buffet offerings. “Mr. Ainslie, Miss Wood, I'd like to introduce you to the rest of your fellow passengers on this, the thirty-second cruise of Manny van Bris European Tours.”

I paused in the act of scooping some melon onto the small plate, glancing over at where Elliott was wearing his martyred expression again. “Mr. Ainslie?” I said softly.

He grimaced. “It's easier that way. Less explaining to do.”

“How egalitarian of you.”

“This is Mr. Weekes, and his companion Mr. Sorensson,” Tiffany said, moving to stand next to a table with two men in their late twenties.

“Anthony Weekes,” the one with the dark hair and goatee said, giving us a little nod of the head. “This is comrade Dahl. He's from Norway.” His buddy, a huge blond man of obvious Viking stock, murmured something polite, and continued to shovel vast quantities of rolls, potatoes, and eggs into his face.

The next table contained four Japanese girls of about sixteen. They wore matching blue and white school uniforms, and all giggled and bowed their heads when Tiffany said, “And here we have our group from Nagasaki. The girls won a radio contest being held in conjunction with our home-base twinned town, Edmund-upon-Dell. They are here with their two teachers, Miss . . . er . . .” Tiffany consulted her clipboard, frowned, and shook her head briefly. “Ms. Izumi and Ms. Megumi.”

The two women in question sat at the next table and said in very precise English that it was their pleasure to meet us. The girls just giggled more, and whispered to one another, their eyes on Elliott.