The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase
“You just didn’t trust me to do it. ‘Avenge Jason. Avenge me.’ That’s all you were willing to leave to me: revenge. You never considered the rest, did you?” he demanded. “Of what it would be like for me, to spend the rest of my days blaming and hating myself because I couldn’t find a way to keep you safe.”
“Then why would you not keep me with you?” she cried. “I begged you, but you would not listen.”
He winced. He should have kept her with him, should have known better than to let her out of his sight. But she wasn’t a child, and he would not play nanny the rest of his life. He could not live in constant fear that she’d do something insane if he wasn’t by to prevent it.
“I thought I explained everything at Mount Eden,” he said levelly. “I thought you understood. Yet you had so little faith in me, you didn’t even consult me. You could have written about what you’d overheard. I was only three hours away. Instead, you tried to run away with that cursed chess set. All by yourself, in the dead of night. In England, where a lady doesn’t step out the door in broad day without an escort.”
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I know that was wrong. But I had lost my temper. And you know how it is with me, Varian.”
“Demonic possession.”
“Yes,” she answered sadly.
She had him at point non plus. He couldn’t fight the demon in her breast.
Varian thought for a long while, aware of the anxious glances she darted at him. “Very well,” he said finally. “If you cannot manage your temper, we can’t possibly have children. Ever.”
Her gasp was sharp as a shriek. “No, you cannot—”
“I can just picture you as a mother. The first time the poor devil tries your patience, you’ll lose your temper and drown it. And be dreadfully sorry after, of course. Then you’ll promise never to do it again and pester me for another. The next thing I know, the blighter will wake you up in the night—and you’ll toss him out the window.”
“I would never, never harm a child.”
“I don’t trust you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t trust you to come to me and say, ‘Varian, the child is making me crazy. What shall we do?’ We,” he repeated. “As in asking for help. As in consulting my opinion. As in having some fragment of confidence in my judgment. And my honor. And affection.”
Her bottom lip began to tremble. “I know what you are telling me. I am sorry, Varian. I only wanted to give you what was rightfully yours.” Her voice wavered.
He scooped her up and onto his lap. “You shan’t distract me with tears. Tell me the whole truth.”
“I have,” she mumbled, her face downcast.
“You’ve told me only half. The other half is that you wanted to test me, didn’t you? You wanted to see how I’d react when you took away my excuse for not keeping you at Mount Eden.”
Her head shot up. He stared right back into her startled green eyes.
“Just because I’m not as devious as your side of the family doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” he said. “I’ll wager you’re still wondering what I’ll do. Gad, what a little idiot.” He crushed her against his chest. “What a stubborn, reckless, passionate little fool.”
It might have been worse, Esme told herself. She did not mind being called names, so long as he kept her on his lap. After a while, he even fell asleep so, his arms still wrapped about her. The stream of insults must have quieted his mind, else he’d not have slept. Her mind, too, was quieted, for she’d heard his pain and understood he was angry because she’d frightened and hurt him. He would not have felt so if he cared nothing for her. To feel assured that he did would have been worth even a beating, though she did not think she truly deserved one.
Esme wished she might remain so, snuggled close to him, forever. In a few short hours, though, they were in London, and minutes thereafter, at the Brentmor townhouse.
Percival dashed out into the street, a troop of servants behind him, even before the carriage halted. The Dowager Lady Brentmor, however, did not so much as step into the hallway.
Rigid as a pikestaff, she stood in the salon to await her family in state. She frowned at Varian when he entered with Esme in his arms, glared at Esme as Varian deposited her upon the sofa, and glowered at Percival, who trotted in a step ahead of his uncle. It was upon Jason, the son she’d not seen in two and a half decades, that the dowager bent the blackest scowl of all.
Jason smiled, put down the travel bag containing the chess set, marched up to her, and gave her a hard hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek. Then he drew back to study her with frank admiration. “My dear Mama, how well you look.”
Her sharp hazel eyes raked him up and down. “Can’t say the same for you. Brawling on the waterfront, was you? With a lot of sailors and godless barbarians. Not to mention the gel shot, and her numskull husband nigh beaten to pudding. And your scapegallows brother gone to Judgment. There’s one thing to be thankful for—at least we hadn’t to watch him be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
After thus welcoming them, she plunked herself upon a chair, ordered Jason to serve the brandy, and demanded an explanation.
What she got was a highly condensed version of the tale Jason had related in the carriage. It appeared to satisfy her—for the present, she said. Then she turned one of her brimstone looks upon Esme. “Your pa ain’t seen me in twenty-five years—yet he knew what I was about. What in blazes was you thinking of?”
“I was angry,” Esme answered calmly. “I was not thinking clearly.”
“If you was angry, you should have come and quarreled with me. Never held your tongue before. Keep you, indeed,” the old lady muttered. “I’d as soon keep a flock of jackdaws.”
“I know, Grandmama. I am impossible. But if you wish to scold me, at least let the men go to bed. They are both weary, but too proud to tell you so.”
The dowager considered her son, seated next to her by the fire, then Varian, who was perched on the sofa arm near Esme. “Not a pretty sight,” she grumbled, “neither of you. Get along to bed, then.” She nodded curtly at Percival. “You, too. And no dawdling behind to listen at the keyhole. You’ve done enough of that for one lifetime, I think.”
Percival flushed.
Varian fixed his cool gray gaze upon the dowager. “I trust you meant that as a compliment, my lady. Every one of us has reason to be grateful to your grandson.”
“Only by the grace of God,” she snapped. “Things might have turned out different—”
“But they didn’t. Even if they had, no reasonable human being can fault him for trying to do his duty.” He rose and approached the boy. “Your uncle’s story ought to speak for itself. Since it evidently hasn’t, for some parties, I shall elucidate. We are all deeply grateful, Percival, for your courage and intelligence.”
Percival’s flush deepened. “Oh, dear. Not—oh, but I didn’t. That is to say, I did lie to you and keep secrets—and really, I’m very sorry.”
“I cannot imagine how you might have done otherwise.” Varian put out his hand.
The boy’s chagrin eased into relief, and he shook the offered hand.
Thank you, Esme silently told her husband. Even she had forgotten about Percival. She, too, needed reminding how much she owed her cousin: thanks as well as apologies, for she had misjudged him, repeatedly.
She heard her father echo Varian’s sentiments, and her grandmother grumbling that the boy had done his best, after all, and a body couldn’t ask more than that. All Esme could say would be redundant. Instead, she moved to her cousin and gave him a crushing hug.
Rather shyly, he hugged her in return. “I was monstrous worried last night,” he confided softly to her. “But I knew his lordship would find you. Mama told me he was much more intelligent than he pretended. She said—” He blinked twice, then went very still. As she stepped away from him, Esme noticed that Jason and her grandmother had fallen silent as well. They were watching Varian.
He’d taken the chess pieces out
“I thought you was tired,” said the dowager. “You ain’t meaning to play now, are you?”
“I loathe chess,” he said. “It is tediously complicated. Just looking at the set makes me frantic.”
“You don’t need to like it,” Jason said impatiently. “All you need to do is sell it.”
Varian raised his eyebrows. “The St. Georges do not engage in trade. At any rate, I can’t possibly sell Percival’s inheritance.”
“My—oh dear. But it isn’t. It’s Esme’s dowry, sir. Mama said so, and wrote it in her will.”
Varian focused on Esme. He didn’t utter a word, didn’t need to. She didn’t so much as look at the set. “It has nothing to do with me,” she said. “The dowry goes to the husband, to dispose of as he chooses.”
“As I did, last night,” said Varian. “I promised it to Sir Gerald. He kept his end of the bargain, only didn’t live to enjoy the reward. Therefore, like the rest of his property, it must go to his heir.”
Percival swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir, but I—that is, Papa shouldn’t have needed to be bribed. You mustn’t think I…” He blinked, several times. “Mama wanted Cousin Esme to have it.”
“Only to be sure she got a husband. Your mama had no way of knowing Esme would get a husband all by herself. Otherwise she’d have left the set to you.”
Percival started to protest, then gave up, perilously near tears. “Th-thank you, sir. It is very—”
“Old,” Varian finished briskly. “Why don’t you see if you can find a proper container for it? You don’t want to wrap it up in Esme’s underthings again, I hope.”
The boy promptly fled. Just before the door closed behind him, Esme heard his choked sob. Her own throat tightened. She noticed her father’s eyes had become suspiciously bright. Beside him, the dowager sniffed, for Varian had reduced even that tough old lady to tears. Two tears, to be precise, which she swatted away indignantly.
Because she understood, as they all did, what the gift meant to Percival. He’d nothing of his beloved mama’s to remember her by. His father had seen to that. All that remained of Diana’s possessions was the chess set. Worth a fortune.
Brushing away her own tears, Esme met her husband’s bored gaze.
His lordship yawned. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I had better say good night.”
“You make me feel ashamed,” Esme said.
Varian was leaning back upon the pillows, his hands clasped behind his head. Through half-closed eyes he studied his wife, who sat cross-legged on the bed beside him. “I suppose you can’t help it,” he said. “I am so noble, so inexpressibly saintly. Naturally, you adore me. Worship the ground I walk upon. I am, after all, the great light of the heavens, your beautiful god.”
Her wistful green gaze traveled from his face down over his naked torso, then back to her folded hands. She sighed. “It is true. This is how I feel.”
“Sometimes. In your rare moments of tranquility.”
“It is not easy to be tranquil about you. I look at you, then I look at myself ...” She hesitated.
“And?”
She made a small, helpless gesture. “I do not understand why God would put together two people so different.”
“You think the Almighty has made some sort of ghastly mistake and, being all-wise, must eventually correct it?”
She moved uneasily. “Yes, I think this sometimes, and it makes me anxious.”
“It makes you crazy sometimes,” he corrected. “It’s made you think idiotic things: that I don’t want to live with you, for instance, and that I don’t want your children. However, I mean to make you see the error of your ways.”
She lifted her head. “Then you will take me to Mount Eden?”
He nodded.
“And—and we shall make a family?” She blushed.
He shrugged. “I have no choice. You find all prevention methods thoroughly revolting. I shall not wound your tender sensibilities again—or my own,” he added half to himself.
“But do you want them?” she persisted. “They may…it is possible they will be like me. I would try my best to prevent that, but there is no recipe. One cannot make children as one does a poultice.”
His mouth twitched. “Are you trying to persuade me or talk me out of it?”
“I thought perhaps, when you imagined children, you would picture sons in your own image. Men often do,” she said defensively.
He nodded. “I’ve imagined that. It fills me with inutterable horror. Fortunately, it is scientifically impossible, I believe, to get children exactly like me, even if I could make them all by myself, which is an even greater scientific impossibility. Since I must make them with you…”
He eyed her consideringly. “You’re rather small, and horribly bad-tempered. Still, you did promise to grow, and on the whole, I tend to find your temper exciting. The shouting and vituperation, I mean,” he clarified. “Not the homicidal or suicidal aspects. Fortunately, if I keep you very busy breeding and attending to my every whim, you won’t have time for violence.”
“Do not tease.” She nudged him with her knee. “I am not so savage as that.”
“I only worry that you’ll find domesticity boring.”
“Tsk. You do not understand.” She edged nearer. “There are other ways besides battle and blood feud to test one’s courage. This day you fought like a brave warrior. Yet all the days and weeks before you fought as well, a greater struggle in many ways.” She laid her hand over his heart. “That is the battle I truly wished to fight, Varian...by your side.”
The touch warmed him. The words made him ache. “I know,” he said gently. “Unfortunately, I was determined on martyrdom. I went after redemption with a vengeance—trying to prove myself worthy, I suppose, of the wonderful creature I married.”
She drew her hand away. “I am not wonderful. Ask my father. All the same, I can—”
“Wonderful,” he said firmly. “Why do you find it so easy to face harsh truths and so hard to accept the pleasant ones? When I’ve anything tender or sentimental to say, you oblige me to camouflage it with witticisms and silly jokes. I wouldn’t mind, if only you didn’t keep missing the punch line.”
“The point of the joke, you mean?”
“The point of everything.” Sitting up fully, he took her hands in his. “I love you,” he said, “as you are. “
“Nay, you need not say—”
“Listen to me,” he said.
She bowed her head.
“Do you recall the night on the way to Poshnja, when I said you were the flame and I the moth?” he asked.
She started to shake her head, Albanian style, then managed an awkward nod. “Yes, I recall.”
The small gesture, toward him, toward the England that was her home now, nearly undid him. But he was determined make her understand, and believe, fully.
“I said you were always bursting into flame.” He twined his fingers with hers. “You set things on fire inside me. Wishes, dreams, needs I’d hidden so deep I hardly realized they existed. They were like dead wood, kindling. You set the spark to them.”
She kept her gaze fixed on their twined hands. “That night, you meant desire.”
“Desire drove me, yes. At the time, that was all I comprehended. It kept me with you when my old self urged me to run away as I always had, from every difficulty. From tomorrow. From life itself, I think.”
“You are not the only one who has wished to run away,” she said guiltily. “Yet you have not done so once in the time I have known you, while I have, several times.”
“Not to escape your problems, but to meet them head on. To fight for honor, independence. Last night, this morning, you were fighting for your rights, your marriage. Forme.” , “I caused you distress, all the same.”
“Perhaps that was nec
Whether I want to or not. Mostly not, it would seem. I’ve been kicking and screaming the whole way. Because it has been horrible, Esme.”
“Yes, horrible,” she sadly agreed.
“And glorious,” he added. “As you are. As life is. You think the Almighty made a mistake. I think some angel sent you.” He released her hands and, smiling, stroked her cheek. “One who’d evidently read Childe Harold and decided it would do better transformed to comedy.”
“Childe Harold?” Esme moved his hand away. “You speak of Lord Byron’s poem? The one about Albania?”
“Albania is only part of a long tale about an unhappy wanderer. The night in Bari when Percival lied about the black queen, he’d been reading the first canto.”
Closing his eyes, Varian quoted, “ ‘For he through Sin’s long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh’d to many though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas! could ne’er be his.’ “ He bent to whisper in her ear, “Who does that sound like to you?”
She shivered and drew away. “Nay, that is not the whole passage. Percival lent me his book weeks ago. I do not recall every word, but I remember it goes on to describe how the man would corrupt the girl he loved and then betray her with others while he spent all her money.”
Varian opened his eyes. “You know it, do you? Did you also know that your aunt told Percival I was like Childe Harold?”
“Perhaps she saw you so. But with me you have not wandered aimlessly about, sulking and acting tragically.”
“Because the mischievous angel decided my pilgrimage would be different and put Percival in my way. All that’s happened since the night he lied about the black queen—every conflict, every fear and heartache—all of it was necessary, all part of a journey of discovery.”
Drawing her back onto the pillows with him, he threaded his fingers through her hair. “Most important, on this journey we discovered each other,” he went on.