The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase
“Don’t be cross, love. The sun has condescended to shine today, and your scowl will frighten it away.”
Esme hastily subsided, though not for fear of driving away the sun. It was the careless endearment that stopped her tongue. When he said her name, the whispery sound seemed to call to her very being. This was worse.
Love. It called back the touch of his mouth upon hers and the hot pressure of his body against her back. Those recollections brought a tremble of sensations within her that left her disoriented and wistful, like one waking from a bittersweet dream.
Esme was not given to self-delusion. She suspected what her trouble was, and could not be altogether amazed. Petro had said his master had a way with women. Moreover, she doubted any female could spend so much time in the company of such godlike beauty and remain unaffected, worthless and dissolute as this particular deity might be. His face and form, unfortunately, betrayed nothing of his weak character, nor did the smoky sound of his persuasive voice. When one admired a handsome palace and longed to live there, Esme reflected, one did not think of the rats scurrying about in its bowels.
She was no saint and, being female, must have some feminine susceptibilities. This she understood. Yet it didn’t mean she approved, or wished to encourage her frailties. There was no place in her life for such foolishness.
Besides, it was mortifying. How he’d laugh if he guessed what his ugly, scrawny little interpreter felt. Had she been a beauty, tall and voluptuous…but she was not and never would be. For that, she should be thankful. Since he’d never find her desirable, her virtue would never be tested. She’d enough cause to blame herself, enough reason for sorrow. She certainly didn’t need to heap shame upon grief.
They rode on in silence for an hour or more, and Esme felt his gaze upon her several times. She resolutely kept her own eyes upon the treacherous path ahead.
“Are you angry with me?” he said at last.
“Yes,” she answered. “I should not be, because you cannot help being what you are. All the same, it is most trying. You have a gift for making difficulties for yourself.”
“Good grief, you’re not still upset about my swim in the river?”
“I do not know what is to be done with you,” she said. “You are like those little children who seem to spend all their time devising new ways to hurt themselves. Since I cannot swaddle you up or tie a leash about your waist, I am convinced you will be dead by the time we reach Tepelena, no matter what I do. Then Ali will blame me. If he’s in an amiable mood, he might merely have me shot from a cannon. Otherwise, I shall probably be roasted upon a spit, or torn limb from limb. Whatever he chooses, it is bound to be humiliating. One rarely dies with dignity at his hands.”
“I see. It’s not my survival that worries you, but your own.”
“Of course your survival concerns me,” she answered coldly. “You are a guest in my country. I am obliged to see to your safety and comfort.”
“But except for that, you don’t give a damn about me.”
“What is the use, when you do not give a damn about yourself? I do not pursue hopeless causes.”
His sharp intake of breath was clearly audible above the hoofbeats.”
“Well, that wasn’t pleasant,” he said. “The truth rarely is, I understand. Not that I’m much acquainted with truth, personally, but…Drat it, Esme, you don’t even know me.”
She almost felt sorry for him. She’d never imagined anything she said would penetrate his arrogance. “This is true enough,” she said after an uncomfortable moment. “I know only what I observe. Perhaps there are extenuating circumstances.”
He considered. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It’s just that— oh, never mind. Extenuating,” he went on more lightly. “Your English vocabulary is remarkable.”
“My own language is more beautiful,” she said, “but sometimes yours offers a greater choice of words.”
“I should think that the case always. You can choose among several words to convey exactly the nuance you wish.”
She nodded and clicked her tongue. “You don’t know my language, and so you don’t understand. In Albanian, one conveys the nuances, as you say, in tone, expression. It is more subtle. It has more feeling.”
“That may be so. Regrettably, I have found its speakers remarkably unfeeling.”
Esme felt a nasty prick of conscience. She ignored it. Her conscience was an idiot to respond to the plaints of a spoiled, selfish libertine. “That is not reasonable. In Rrogozhina, my countrymen treated you like a prince. What more do you want?”
“Your countrymen have been unremittingly kind and gracious,” he said. “Perhaps I should have been more precise. I meant you.”
“You find me unfeeling?”
He shifted uneasily in the saddle, and his mount snorted in annoyance. “That’s not quite what I meant. You’ve looked after me very kindly, indeed, and I do appreciate—that is, you did save my life...”
Esme waited, but his lordship produced no further enlightenment. “Then I do not understand what you are complaining about,” she said haughtily. “When you discover what it is, I shall be honored to hear.”
They reached Lushnja at midday, and it was there Varian first encountered the harsh reality of Albanian tribal justice. Two men had recently quarreled, and one had murdered the other. The murderer had fled, and the chiefs of his tribe had set fire to his house and land. Another blood feud had begun.
Though Esme had assured him guests were safe from attack, Varian refused to linger in the town. Even the promise of a hot bath could not tempt him.
“It’s barbaric,” he told her as they passed the charred field. “A man must be punished for murder, I suppose, but why punish his wife and children as well by burning their property?”
“Others will look after his family,” she said stiffly. “They at least will not be thrown into dungeons for their poverty. My father told me that in England a man and his whole family may be imprisoned merely because they are penniless.”
That struck too close to home. Lord Edenmont himself belonged in debtors’ prison. As to his own lands, he’d needed no torch to devastate them.
All the same, he’d rather quarrel with her than endure more hours of cold silence. Varian was unused to coldness, unused, certainly, to such open contempt, and it upset him far more than he could have guessed.
He didn’t know how to fight it. All his attempts to defend himself sounded querulous…and only made him appear more childish than ever. It was mortifying that Edenmont, who could coax warmth from the stoniest ogre of a dowager, could not elicit a glimmer of softness from this adolescent girl.
This was how low he’d sunk: wanting to make her berate him, mock him—anything but that chilly disregard.
“True,” he said. “But we English place a high value on money. This is what distinguishes us from less civilized nations,” he added provokingly.
“You English recognize only one civilization—your own,” she returned. “Albania built fine temples and created great art while your ancestors lived like animals in mud hovels and caves. The Romans sent their noble sons here, to Apollonia, to be trained as warriors, and these men sailed across the seas to conquer the savages of your little island. Time after time nations have come and tried to rule us, yet they could not mold us to their will. They could not even mold our language—not the Greeks, nor the Romans, nor even the Turks. Four centuries they’ve ruled us, and still the only ones who speak Turkish here are the Turks themselves. How long did the Normans need to convert your people to French? A week?” she concluded scornfully.
“That’s simply because we’re so enormously hospitable. And not nearly so obstinate. Of course, your people may have retained the one language simply because they were incapable of learning another.”
“How can you be so ignorant? I speak four languages excellently, and even in Turkish I can communicate.”
“But you’re half English.”
She threw him a murderous glance.<
“Is that the evil eye Petro speaks of?” Varian asked. “It’s quite good, I must say. If I weren’t so hardened in wickedness, it should stop my tongue for a fortnight.”
“You have been provoking me deliberately,” she accused. “Why? Do you like to hear me scold?”
“Yes. You make such wonderful speeches. I wish I could let you take my place in the House of Lords. You’d enliven the proceedings considerably.”
Esme in England. The prospect boggled Varian’s mind. What would they make of her, this ferocious nymph? Add a few years—Esme at eighteen, perhaps—and place her at Almack’s among the glittering, bored lights of society. What then?
Then, Varian had small doubt, at least a few perceptive men would discern what he did. Though she was unlike anything they knew, and possessed virtually every quality most disapproved of in females, they’d glance once into her passionate green eyes and forget utterly everything they’d ever believed about women.
She was looking away from him, her high-boned cheeks tinged with pink.
“I see,” she said. “You are amused. I make a fine court jester.”
“The jester, may I point out, was usually the only member of the court who dared speak the truth.”
“Aye,” she answered wearily, “and they all laughed, just the same.”
They stopped to make camp just before sunset and, for the first time, his lordship made himself useful. He assisted not only in unloading the horses, but in setting up the tents and collecting fuel for the fire. Esme thought he was more in the way than helpful, but the men didn’t seem to mind his incompetence, though they were obviously amused. He seemed amused as well. Esme heard a great deal of laughter, interspersed by Petro’s translations—inept, no doubt.
She was not allowed to join them. His royal highness had pointed to one spot near the horses where she was to remain until their tent was in place, unless she wished to suffer some perfectly ghastly punishment.
The threat was unnecessary. Esme fully understood why she must keep away from the men. If they discovered her gender, they could easily, though unintentionally, misspeak in the wrong company. A single word—a feminine pronoun instead of masculine—could arouse suspicion, and one could never be certain where Ismal’s spies were.
Nonetheless, Esme found she could not wait calmly. She had never been good at waiting, and now she felt so restless she could scream. It was his lordship’s fault. He made her tense and unreasonably angry and, driven by anger, she found herself behaving exactly like the uncivilized heathen he thought her.
How many times had she insulted him? A hundred, at least. Yet it was his fault, too, for provoking her, and treating her like a helpless child, and nearly falling off his horse in amazement every time she showed the smallest sign of intelligence.
Extenuating. You’d think it was the most obscure and complicated word in twenty languages. And to say English was precise—when he could not produce a string of words in that curst language to explain himself.
Also, he’d said she was unfeeling. She, wracked with grief for a murdered father. She, anxious—for all her assurances to everyone else—for her young cousin.
Should she have wept and worried the whole day? Or perhaps his lordship would prefer to hear her boast of her plans for revenge, and the certain death she was headed for. Or maybe she should moan pathetically that she was all alone in her own country, and the few who cared about her at all planned to send her away to a foreign land and a family that despised her.
Aye, she had plenty of feeling to show, were she weak-willed enough. Should she tell him, too, that he only made everything worse?
From the clearing beyond came his low-pitched drawl and another burst of laughter from the men. Esme kicked a stone. There he was, charming them all, as usual. And here she was, driven to distraction, because the sound of his voice drew her entire being to him, and she could not stop it, for all her will.
She sent another stone flying into the thicket and wished she could find some greater damage to inflict. She wished she had Ismal’s neck in her hands at this moment, for she could have wrung it as easily as if it were a chicken’s. It was all his fault, every bit of it, up to and including this devil of an Englishman.
“Are you trying to pave a road for me singlehanded? How very thoughtful, madam.”
Esme turned hastily. She’d not heard him approach. “I was bored,” she said, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Better to kick stones than living targets.”
“Do you want to kick me so badly?” he asked. “What have I done now?”
“You’ve made me stay in one place, all by myself, while you go and amuse yourself with the other men. I wait alone and listen to you laugh, and no one tells me the jokes.”
“Of course not. They’re not fit for a young lady’s innocent ears. Besides, you wouldn’t understand them.” He paused. “At least, I hope not.”
Her head went up. “They told wicked stories and you would not let me hear?”
“It doesn’t matter what kind of stories. You know why you have to keep away from the men, Esme, so there’s no need to look at me in that murderous way.”
“You might have given me something to do,” she grumbled. “To wait idly, with no company, is tiresome.”
A lazy lure of a smile curved his wicked mouth. “Forgive me,” he said. “I had no idea you were longing for my company. How cruel of me to deprive you.”
To her consternation, Esme felt her cheeks heat. She raised her chin. “Indeed, efendi, my beautiful god. You have broken my heart. I think I shall run to the river and drown myself.”
Her spine straight, she began to march past him. His hand shot out and lightly caught her arm.
Esme looked down at his long, smooth hand, then up into his face, and her heartbeat quickened.
“I was only teasing,” he said. “I know you’d rather the Devil’s company than mine.”
“I think that is much the same thing,” she answered tartly. “You may let go of me. I cannot run away. I have no place to go.”
“I’m sorry.” He slid his hand down her arm, where it lingered a moment to leave a tingle of warmth. Then, finally, he released her. “Shall I tell Petro to keep you company tonight? I can’t leave you by yourself.”
Petro—that fearful old woman—her guard? How dare he? Yet Esme knew why. His almighty lordship didn’t want her low company.
“You think I need him?” she cried. “What is wrong with you? Only tell me where to sleep and I shall make my bed there. Here, if you like. What have I to fear? Kidnappers—when I’m dead? Wild beasts? There are none hereabouts. And besides, I have my rifle and my knife and—”
“And you’re a female,” he interrupted, “so it’s no good telling me how capable you are of defending yourself. I’m an Englishman, recollect, and it’s against our rules to leave women to fend for themselves. You shouldn’t even be traveling with me without a chaperon, but I can hardly get you one when you’re supposed to be a boy.” He sighed, then started back toward the tent.
After a moment’s hesitation, Esme followed.
“You make a great piece of trouble about nothing,”
She said as she trailed him into the tent. “You agitate yourself for no reason. If this is the English way, I must tell you it is stupid and crazy. My father reared me to protect myself, not be sheltered and coddled by others. I am not a babe, and it is offensive to be treated like one.”
His back was turned to her, and he was pulling off his cloak. He flung it to the ground and swung round to face her. “I do beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “How do you wish to be treated?”
His tower of a body vibrated with anger. Only a fool would provoke him further. Esme’s brain told her to shut up, but she was beyond heeding it. “As I appear,” she snapped. “As a boy. Even a boy of twelve, like my cousin, is considered a man, not a helpless infant.”
He advanced and, in a flash, yanked off her headdress and threw it onto the cloak. Her tangled hair
“You can’t change your gender with a hat,” he said. “You’re not a boy, and all the wishing in the world won’t make you one. You are a wretched, quarrelsome female, and you are plaguing me to death. I’m trying to behave like a gentleman—why must you make it so curst impossible?” His hands moved from her shoulders, up her neck, to cup her face. “Why, Esme?”
She didn’t know. Within, a vast impatience consumed her. She’d always been so levelheaded, above vanity, yet looking into that beautiful, dissipated countenance, Esme wished desperately she were beautiful as well, that she might dare to touch him…
She closed her eyes. If she couldn’t see, she wouldn’t weaken.
“Oh, don’t,” he whispered, so near his breath caressed her skin. A tiny shiver ran down her neck. Nearly in the same instant, she felt the soft warmth of his mouth touching hers. A shower of sparks darted through her, a delicious feeling of gladness.
Instinctively, she touched his sleeve, to keep him there.
Miraculously, it worked. The warmth sank down upon her, and his lips clung to hers like morning dew upon a budding rose. For one long moment, she felt as beautiful as a rosebud, all her being opening in pleasure as a flower opens to a warm spring dawn.
He scarcely held her, his hands lightly cupping her face. Esme felt only the lightest pressure as his lips moved gently over hers, but that was an aching sweetness which swelled within her while he lingered...as though it were delicious to him, as though he savored what he tasted there.
But that was impossible. All he could feel was curiosity. Though she was another species to him, she was a female, as he’d reminded her so angrily. Being addicted to females, he must, naturally, investigate even this pitiful specimen. He must toy with her and discover if she was like other women.
Esme pulled her head back, and his eyes opened in sleepy surprise. “That is enough,” she said shakily.