The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase
She didn’t blame him, not one bit, though it was so mortifying to be ordered to keep away as if she carried a vile disease. But that wasn’t why. He was being civilized. He didn’t want to be tempted to hit her, or throttle her. Another man, goaded as he had been, would have knocked her clear across the room the instant he walked through the door, and she would not have blamed him. What an unspeakable harridan she’d been! Detestable, stupid, ugly, rude, vicious. An animal.
But she wasn’t. She had some honor. She owed an apology. And the truth. Not all, for she couldn’t bear that. But some, at least.
She folded her hands and directed her gaze to the carpet. Near her right foot she saw a tiny colored maze of intertwined squares, vivid against the maroon background. She fixed on it.
“I lied to you,” she said, “Repeatedly. I exaggerated how long it would take to repair the ship and understated the difficulties in reaching Tepelena. Though I’d have gone alone if I had to, I knew I would encounter fewer problems traveling with an Englishman.”
“You used me,” he said.
She winced, “Yes.”
“You might have used me more kindly.”
The reproach made her look up guiltily. His eyes were dark, filled with shadows.
“I did not want you to like me,” she said, wringing her hands. “I did not want to like you. That would make everything so much more difficult for me…for what I had to do.”
“What did you have to do?” he asked quietly.
His dark gaze caught and held her, while her heart pumped crazily. Dear heaven, why did he ask that? Didn’t he believe the reason she’d given him in Berat—that she must wed Ismal? Hadn’t she feigned well enough a few hours ago?
“Be-because of Is-Ismal,” she said.
“What about him? What had you to do?”
It didn’t matter how gently he asked. There was only one way to answer—with the lie she had so carefully contrived. This man would abandon her here. She’d made it impossible for him to do otherwise. She’d no need to tell him the whole truth, to watch his expression harden into revulsion, his soft voice chill with disgust. Yet her soul cried out for truth, for it cried out to him, to release her, punish her—she didn’t know what she needed. All she knew at this moment was that she was sick with despair, and the lie would surely kill her.
“I had...I had...” The words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t a coward, yet she was so afraid. Of what? Losing him, when he’d been lost to her from the start?
“Tell me, Esme.”
She closed her eyes. “I had to kill Ismal.” She said it quickly, and though the words came out in a strained whisper, it was not so fast or so low he couldn’t hear it. The sound was too loud in her own ears. She felt cold and ashamed, though to seek revenge was no shame. That, however, he couldn’t understand. He’d see her as a cold-blooded monster who mindlessly pursued a man all believed innocent—a man they all believed loved her and wanted desperately to wed her. Oh, why had she said those terrible words?
“Little fool.” His voice, too, was low, but it lashed her. “Reckless, passionate little fool.”
“Varian—”
“Hajde,” he said.
Her gaze snapped to him. He held out his hand. “Hajde,” he repeated.
Her heart slammed hard against her chest, and her whole frame shuddered in response. But his low, beckoning voice called to her in her own tongue, and body and spirit answered at once, though tremblingly. Slowly, Esme moved to him and put her hand in his. His long fingers closed over hers, and he drew her nearer. Capturing her other hand, he tugged until she stood intimately close, her silken skirt brushing his trousers. Her breath came in short, strained gasps.
“You can’t kill him, Esme,” he said, “and I can’t kill him for you.”
Her heart seemed to splinter into a thousand shards. “Oh, Varian.” She pulled free of his hands, threw her arms about him, and buried her face in the warmth of his coat. “Don’t hate me,” she pleaded. “Please don’t hate me.”
Strong arms wrapped round her, crushing her against his hard body. He pressed his mouth to her neck for one long, achingly warm moment. Then he lifted her up and carried her to the sofa, where he gathered her onto his lap. “Hate you. Oh, yes,” he growled. Then his mouth sank down upon hers.
She had expected rage and revulsion, but his kiss was shatteringly tender, for all its heat. She wept within at its sweetness, just as she wept for the heart he had stolen from her so easily. She’d been a fool to imagine she could keep it from him, just as she’d been a fool about everything else.
When he raised his head at last, Esme hid her face against his shoulder. His fingers played in her hair, then slipped down to caress her breast, lightly, barely touching the thin silk. Even under this feather touch, her flesh stirred in aching answer. She shivered. His hand moved to her hip, only to rest there, yet its warmth washed through her belly.
“Ah, Esme, what’s to be done with you?”
His voice was as gentle as his touch, and she answered helplessly, just as her body had. “Don’t leave me.” It was but a tiny, muffled cry against his coat, yet too audible in the room’s stillness.
A long silence.
“You’re upset,” he said at last, “and I am taking advantage. Gad, what a blackhearted swine I am—and the boy just upstairs.” He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I wish...I wish I were the sort of man you could have told it to sooner. ‘My lord,’ you’d have said, ‘I must avenge my father’s murder. Would you be kind enough to offer me your protection en route?’“
Esme peeked up doubtfully at him from her hiding place. “And what would you have answered?”
He smiled. “I should not have answered, but leapt immediately upon my white charger and gone out to slay the evil prince. If I were that other man. But I’m not. I’m Edenmont, lazy, selfish, and utterly useless. I can do nothing but take you away.”
This was more than Esme could bear. He not only seemed to understand and would not abandon her, but also blamed himself. “You are none of those things,” she said. She sat up fully, her eyes filled with all the admiration and gratitude she felt. “You tried to do what was right—what everyone knew was right, except me. This night Ismal offered you an immense bribe to abandon me, yet you refused it.”
He shook his head, and one thick black lock shook loose to dangle rakishly at his eyebrow. “Don’t make me out to be noble, Esme. I’m not. Just stubborn, and exceedingly selfish. Percival may be furious with you at the moment, but he’s made up his mind you’re leaving with him. If you don’t, he’ll plague me to death. In any case, Ali has made his position very clear: you’re leaving tomorrow for Corfu, one way or another. If I chose not to take you, he said he’d send you with an army. I agreed to take you, though I warned I might need the army to accomplish the feat. He expressed his sympathy. He said you reminded him of his mother.”
“Ali?” This was incomprehensible. “He wants me gone—yet he let Ismal—”
“Make his touching speech, just as he let me make an ass of myself. Ali Pasha has a peculiar sense of humor—and a terrifying gift for judging character.” While he spoke, Varian absently stroked her hair. “For the first time, I could understand why your father stayed to work for him. The Vizier is half mad, a sadistic fiend by all accounts, yet he has Satan’s own gift for manipulation. And he knows what he’s about.”
He fell silent, while his long fingers continued their soothing caress, drawing the tension from her scalp, from her very being.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said after a moment. “It’s clear you loved him very much. I wish I could have met him. I wish he were, here for you—instead of a numskull knave of a lord and a confused twelve-year-old boy.”
Esme forced her voice past the burning obstruction in her throat. “You are not a numskull,” she said, “and Percival is much less confused than I have been. You have both been far kinder than I deserve, but I shall try to ma
“By heaven, you do go to extremes, don’t you?” He smiled.
So sweet that smile was, warm as the sun. When he looked so, he could make a dying weed blossom into brilliant blooms. His touch could do the same. In the shelter of his arms, her tormented brain had quieted.
“I want to go with you,” she blurted out. “I would go anywhere you say, Varian. This night I thought you’d leave me. I thought you would go from my life—and worse, that we would part in misunderstanding and anger and lies. Instead, you were patient and helped me unburden my heart. Now it is filled with gratitude. Those are merely words, but I shall prove it. Only wait and see.” She swallowed. “No wonder all the women love you.”
Varian stared at her most oddly, his beautiful eyes again filled with shadows, like shifting smoke. Then he scooped her up and set her on her feet before him. “I’m no good at resisting temptation,” he said. “Go to bed, please, before the strain of everlasting kindness and nobility proves too much for me.”
Esme would have preferred to remain in his lap. During their journey, he had kissed and caressed her in lust. He’d once held her nearly naked in his arms and set her aflame. Never before, however, had he touched her in affection or spoken directly to her heart. Never before had she felt so close to him. She wanted to stay as close as she could.
But she’d promised to be good, hadn’t she? He’d told her to go to bed, and so she would. “Where do you want me to sleep?”
He gave a short laugh. “Where I want you to sleep is not the question. You’d best share Percival’s room. Petro is out with his cronies, drinking himself to stupefaction. We’ll probably find him sprawled in the courtyard tomorrow.”
He glanced at the sofa, and his lip curled. “I shall make my bed here. It’s a great deal softer than what I’ve become accustomed to.”
“I shall bring you blankets,” Esme said dutifully.
“Thank you, but I am quite warm. My thoughts shall keep me so, curse them. Good night, little warrior.”
She gave him a hasty kiss on the cheek, but drew away quickly, so she’d not be tempted to seek more. “Nate’n e mire, Varian Shenjt Gjergj,” she whispered. I love you, her grateful heart added.
Chapter Seventeen
Two hours later, Esme was creeping through the quiet darkness of the harem.
Percival had been sound asleep when she’d reached the bedchamber. She’d had to wait, though, until Lord Edenmont was asleep as well. She’d sat listening at the top of the stairs until the restless rustling below had ceased and a light snoring assured her Varian had at last succumbed.
Then she had climbed out the window, made her way to the gallery, and hurried on to the harem. The sleepy guards at the entrance had let her pass without question. When, however, she reached the small doorway leading to the passage she sought—the one Jason had described to her—the mound of blubber nodding there suddenly jerked full awake to raise hissing objection.
“Ali has sent for me,” she hissed back. “You’d best let me pass or both our heads shall be offered to his highness on array.”
“I had no such message,” the eunuch said. “How do I know you do not go to assassinate him?”
“I, the Red Lion’s daughter? Even if I went on such an errand, with what weapon would I dispatch him? Think you I swallowed a sword and mean to vomit it up when I need it? Where am I to hide weapons in this flimsy garb?” With an exasperated sigh, Esme offered to strip naked if he didn’t believe her, though she advised him to check her quickly, for Ali was not the most patient of men.
As she’d expected, the eunuch declined the honor. He checked for concealed weapons by giving her body a few unenthusiastic pats and, grumbling all the while, let her pass. Naturally. What had the Vizier to fear from a skinny little girl?
Now Esme need only pray Ali was in the private chamber she headed for and that he was still awake. It was only a bit after midnight, and he often stayed up well into the early morning, either browbeating exhausted counselors or amusing himself with an attractive object of either gender. If the latter was the case, Esme hoped he’d chosen a female this night. She had no idea what methods men used to enjoy each other and was not eager at the moment for enlightenment. She’d enough to keep clear in her mind without being distracted by new forms of depravity.
A generous Providence had granted her a reprieve, and she would make noble use of it. She would get her revenge, but this time in a way even Jason would have approved, for she would carry out his heroic mission. Even Percival would be proud of her and greatly relieved when his secret was put properly to work. It would be. She knew what to do and was not afraid. She was the Red Lion’s daughter, and before she left her beloved country forever, she’d save it.
Though Ali wouldn’t believe her at first, he was too wise to discount her accusations entirely. He’d investigate, and his spies would soon discover the truth. In a very short time, Ismal would find himself in the hands of skilled torturers. Then he’d die horribly, just as he deserved, but her own hands would not be stained with his blood. She’d be far away, lonely and unwanted, perhaps, but with her soul wiped clean. In Albania, she might even be praised as a brave heroine. That would be enough for her, Esme told herself. That and satisfying visions of Ismal’s slow, agonizing death.
These agreeable fantasies sped her to the door of Ali’s private chamber. She was trying to decide whether to knock politely or just creep in when she heard Ismal’s voice, sweet and mellifluous as always. With a silent oath, Esme sank down upon the cold floor to wait. She hoped he’d not be all night.
“I should hold my tongue,” Ismal was saying, “and not risk your displeasure. Yet though you’ll kill me for it, I must speak what is in my heart. My love for you is too great to do otherwise.”
Ali chuckled. “I do believe the English lord’s beauty has addled your wits, little cousin. The girl has to go. She should have gone long ago, along with her half-brother. This is no time to annoy the British. They’re already testy about those villainous Parghiots I slaughtered, and they’re bound to give me trouble about the Suliots, too. I’m going to have the Devil’s own time softening them as it is. I want our visitors safe in British custody before negotiations begin.”
“They won’t negotiate at all if you give the girl a chance to poison their minds first. You saw how she abused the English lord and his king. Send her into exile among those she hates, expose her to their scorn, and you will become her enemy.”
“Yes, a terrible thing that would be,” Ali answered. “I’m shaking in my slippers at the thought of her displeasure. What ghastly thing will she do, I wonder? Weep? Curse me? Stamp her tiny foot? Allah, preserve me. It’s too dreadful to contemplate, the wrath of this little girl.” He roared with laughter.
Esme scowled at the door.
“She may seek revenge.” Ismal’s voice betrayed no hint of irritation. “She knows how badly you want English artillery and advisers. She’s also aware that the more liberal of the English strive to turn their government against you. She can help them, and they’ll be happy to use her. It won’t be hard for her to twist the truth and make you appear a greater threat to the civilized world than the Corsican, Bonaparte.”
Esme’s eyes widened. She’d never trusted Ismal. Never had she doubted he was guilty. All the same, she could not believe the filth he uttered—or that Ali remained quiet, as though he was seriously considering the snake’s warnings.
Yet wasn’t this the sort of threat Ali might heed? He vas always quick to imagine he was being persecuted. He also understood revenge. He was a master of it, a most patient one. He never forgot an injury, though he might wait half a century to collect payment. Damn, but Ismal knew what he was doing; he played the Vizier’s weaknesses as though they were the strings of his giftelia.
Ali’s roar of laughter broke the silence. Evidently, he was not to be played so easily. Esme relaxed.
“Really, Ismal, you’re most entertaining this evening,” the Vizier chortled. “If I didn’t know your sober habits, I’d think you were drunk. Certainly you’re blind. Perhaps she doesn’t want to go. But revenge? You forget the handsome English stallion. Do you think he can’t keep her mind off her grievances?”
“She despises him.”
“Indeed. That’s why, of all the places she might have chosen, she took her seat beside him. Very close beside him.”
Esme winced.
“And when I asked her whether his English sword struck slow and steady, or quick and fierce, she turned the color of ripe cherries.”
“Any maiden would blush at such speech,” Ismal said.
“A maiden wouldn’t have comprehended it or accused me of heeding filthy gossip.”
Esme covered her hot face with her hands. She might have known Ali had good reason for speaking so to her. She should have known she’d betray herself to him. Everyone did.
“She understood because she’s felt his thrust—or wants to,” Ali went on. “Her anger’s only the fire of love, as I explained to him. She’s young, poor child. She hardly comprehends the passion she feels for him. And, naturally, grief for her father confuses her mind. She’s like a wounded creature who strikes out blindly at those who try to help her. But the English lord will doctor her. I advised him how: with sweet words and a gentle touch.”
Esme closed her eyes. Sweet words. Gentle caresses. Not affection, but “doctoring.” Manipulation.
“You think he’ll take your advice?” Ismal asked. “You think this insolent nobleman will trouble himself to keep her quiet with his lovemaking? Just for your sake—or hers? You’ve extraordinary faith in a man everyone knows is a whore.”
“I don’t need faith,” came the confident answer. “I’ve paid him well to make certain she goes with him willingly. It’s what the boy wants, you see, and the boy is the real problem, as the lord so astutely recognizes.”