Esme lay awake beside the Englishman half that following night, assuring herself she was doing the right thing. She’d told the truth about the ship, as Petro and the others had confirmed when they returned. She didn’t want to linger for weeks in this wasteland any more than the Englishman did. She wanted to see her cousin safely out of Albania as quickly as possible, so she could take up her life. The faster they reached Tepelena, the sooner this would happen. In the present circumstances, journeying the hundred or so miles south by land offered the speediest alternative.
Besides, if they waited to sail, she’d end up in Corfu among the British, and Bajo would be there to force her to go to England. She’d been too numb with shock to argue with him yesterday morning in Durres, or even to think. Since then, she’d had plenty of time to reflect.
She thought of her father, who’d been killed on her account. Never again would he tease her and laugh with her. Never again would she stand proudly beside him while he boasted of her to his friends—his daughter, the little warrior. Never again would she hear his gentle voice, always filled with love, even when he scolded. Her loving father, who only wanted to return with her to his own people, had been shot like a dog…because of her. With him, her life would not have been entirely empty, no matter where she went. Without him, she had nothing, only grief…and no one to share it with.
All through the long day she’d shut it away, raised a fortress around her aching heart, and done what must be done. Through that interminable day, her rage had grown, until she thought she must go mad. She could not run away, could never hope to find peace when her heart cried for revenge. Bajo was wrong. He had not killed her father’s murderer. Ismal was still alive. There was only one course for the Red Lion’s daughter: blood for blood.
It would not be difficult. She would see her cousin safely away, then accept Ismal. With Jason dead, Ismal must pay her bride-price, and it would be a high one. But she would cost Ismal more than jewels and coins, and when she took the life from his young body, her honor would be wiped clean. She in turn must pay for that, she understood well enough—either with her life or in the bed of one of Ali’s current favorites. She was not afraid. So long as she cleaned her wretched soul with revenge, she could endure whatever Fate dealt her thereafter.
Beside her, the Englishman stirred restlessly and moaned. She’d made light of his injury, to rouse his spirit, yet she knew the pain must be dreadful. She knew as well he was deeply anxious about Percival. Still, this lord would have no lump on his thick head and no reason to be anxious, if he’d only stayed where he belonged. On the other hand, she quickly reminded herself, the Englishman’s errors had delayed her departure. This terrible mess he’d made had given her an opportunity.
Esme glanced over her shoulder at him. No wonder he groaned. He’d turned to face away from her, and the tender place on his head rubbed against the rough blanket. She sat up and carefully coaxed his unconscious form onto his other side. The low groaning stopped. She lay down once more, her back to him.
She had just begun to sink into sleep when she became aware of a wall of warmth along her backside. In his sleep, the Englishman had edged onto her blanket. She was about to retreat when he moved, mumbled something, then flung his arm over her.
Esme gasped, her heart thumping crazily. Cautiously she took hold of his arm and tried to lift it away. It was like trying to lift a stone pillar. He shivered and nestled closer still, his arm tightening around her. A blanket of heat enveloped her.
Esme rarely thought about cold, was accustomed to accept and ignore it. Yet the man was unwell and the hut chilly and damp. His body sought warmth, that was all. She told herself there was no harm, and closed her eyes. For all her brave resolutions, she felt miserably alone, and sorrow made her cold within. To be held so was comforting.
She was just drifting to sleep when he murmured unintelligibly, and his hand slid up from her waist, over her shirt, and closed over her small breast.
Blind panic shot through her. She clawed at the hand and kicked wildly as she wriggled to get free.
“What the—”
His hand clamped round her wrist, and in the next instant, Esme found herself flat on her back, the Englishman crouched over her. When she tried to scramble away, he dropped on top of her, pinned her hands to the ground on either side of her, and thrust his legs between hers before she could jam her knee into his groin.
For a moment, Esme was too stunned to move. Never in her life had any adversary gained such speedy control. She’d thought this man effete, a lazy weakling. But he was terrifyingly quick—and disconcertingly efficient. Still, he was panting, his curses coming in growling gasps. The oaths didn’t bother her. She knew curses in five languages. What bothered her was the hard weight of his rigid body and the numbing sensation of helplessness. But not for long, she told herself. He was injured, after all, and she was not.
“English swine,” she growled, kicking angrily at his legs. Her flailing foot struck Petro, who’d been snoring obliviously on the other side of her. He bolted up in terror.
“Help! Help!” he screamed in Greek, as he scrabbled wildly at the blankets. “Robbers! Murder!”
“Shut up, you idiot,” the Englishman snapped. “Light the lantern. It’s not robbers, dammit. It’s a girl!”
It took Petro forever to light the lantern—which stank to high heaven. In that time, Varian had relieved the little fiend of his weight, and her headdress. Not that he needed to examine her more closely. He recognized a female body when he felt one, and he’d fully awakened to find his hand curled over a very small, very firm, but unmistakably feminine breast. He’d dreamt he was sleeping with a woman, and woke to find that he was. A girl, he silently amended, his gray gaze upon the shining mass of dark red hair. A girl who’d probably reached puberty about the day before yesterday.
She was sitting cross-legged, glaring at him. Varian’s hands itched to spank her. He didn’t like being made a fool of. He liked still less narrowly escaping murder twice in forty-eight hours. A moment’s delay and he’d have found her knife in his ribs. Yet furious as Varian was, he was not completely insensitive. If she wasn’t Jason’s son, she was surely his daughter. Her name was Esme, a Saxon name, and there way no denying her uncanny resemblance to Percival. All of which meant that she’d just lost her father, which was reason enough to be overwrought. Furthermore, the liberties he’d unconsciously taken with her young body must have terrified her.
“I’m sorry I was so…violent,” he said tightly. “But you took me by surprise, and I thought I was being attacked.”
The green glare changed to an expression of pure scorn. “You? It was not my hands roaming where they had no place to be.”
“I was asleep!” he snapped defensively. “How the devil was I to know where my hands were?”
“So it is,” Petro eagerly agreed. “Why should he caress one he thought a boy? The master does not care for boys. So everyone knows—”
“I wasn’t caressing her, damn you. I was asleep and…”
“You put your hand on my breast!” she accused. “You think I am a concubine, to make no objection? I only tried to get away—and you act as though I tried to murder you. And then it is not enough to subdue me in that shameful way, but you must take off my clothes.”
“I took your knife, so you wouldn’t kill me, and I took off your hat—or whatever that medieval monstrosity is,” he returned, tossing the woolen rag to her.
“It does not matter what it is. You had no right. Had I menfolk by, they’d have killed you for the insult.”
She jammed the ugly woolen helmet onto her head and shoved her thick hair up inside it. Varian saw her hands were shaking. He’d frightened her badly. The poor child must have thought he’d meant to rape her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m not altogether rational when I’m awakened suddenly. But you did deceive me regarding your gender. It was only natural to imagine you were up to some dangerous trick. Theft, murder—ho
w was I to know?”
“So it is,” Petro said. “So I thought myself. Foolish, very foolish,” he chided, “for a little girl to make herself like a boy. And sinful to tell lies.”
“How can you be so ignorant?” she exclaimed. “There is a man after me whose accomplices seek a red-haired girl—and will again seek me when they learn my cousin is a boy. The task isn’t difficult. How many red-haired Albanians do you think there are?” she demanded. “I’ve never heard of any but me.”
She turned her accusing gaze to Varian, who was growing acutely uncomfortable. “It is not the best disguise, I know, but Bajo and I did not plan to linger about long enough to allow close scrutiny,” she went on. “Had the men not spied my cousin, they might have turned away to look elsewhere. And I might have escaped.”
Varian could hardly argue with that. It was his fault she’d not been able to escape, his fault Percival was in the hands of perverts.
“I agree I’m responsible for this whole ghastly mess,” he said. “Considering how stupidly I’ve behaved, I oughtn’t be surprised at your reluctance to trust me with your secret.”
This seemed to placate her somewhat, for she answered less belligerently. “I thought we would all be safer if you did not know. You might treat me differently, or accidentally say something—and others might notice, and I would be discovered.”
That, too, made sense. For all her youth, she had a level head on her shoulders. Varian’s mouth eased into a rueful smile.
“Percival said his uncle was not only brave, but astute,” he said. “It would appear you’ve inherited those qualities as well as his looks.”
The defiance faded from her intense green eyes, and sorrow clouded them.
“I was son and daughter to Jason.” Her voice was just a shade unsteady. “He taught me all I know. Four languages I speak well, and Turkish enough to curse.” She swallowed. “I am an excellent marksman, both with rifle and blade. I can take care of myself—and both of you as well. You will find there’s no need to treat me differently, just because I’m a female.”
Varian must have looked exceedingly doubtful—how could he not, gazing at this elfin creature with her great green eyes?—because she raised her chin and stiffened her posture. “I am not a weak and nervous female, to make a great fuss about a small mistake. I shall forget the insult to my person and take you to Tepelena—if you will forget my small offense in deceiving you.”
“That’s very…generous of you,” Varian said, “but-”
“There’s nothing to fear,” she interrupted impatiently. “I am a fighter, with the scars to prove it. There,” she said, pointing to her arm. “And there.” She slapped her thigh. “But the men who shot me are dead. ‘Little Warrior’ my people call me. You can ask in Rrogozhina—anywhere—and they’ll tell you.”
“Shot?” Varian repeated. A chill trickled down his neck.
“Oh, yes.” She pushed up her sleeve to show the scar. Her slim arm was smooth and delicate, much whiter than her strong, sun-bronzed hands.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “I believe you.” Lord, what sort of swine would put a bullet into that fragile wisp of a body? He felt ill.
“Does your head trouble you, efendi?” she asked, concerned. “Your face has gone white. Perhaps you should lie down.”
Dizzy with the effort to make sense of her, of everything, Varian lay down willingly. No use trying to reason with her tonight. Her mind was disordered by distress. Even her solicitousness bordered on panic.
Still, it was touching the way the girl tucked him in, as though he were a feeble child. She must have decided he was about as dangerous as one, too, for she resumed her place beside him and ordered Petro to move to the other side, that his lordship might share their warmth.
She continued solicitous the following morning until, seeing her packing to travel, Varian gently pointed out that they weren’t going anywhere.
Her face hardened to stone. “Because you do not trust a female to guide you?”
“A young girl,” he corrected. “It’s not you I mistrust, but—”
She didn’t wait to hear more, simply took up her bags and marched from the hut. Despite Petro’s shrieks of panic, Varian was tempted to let her go. The alternative, he was certain, was to tie her down.
The trouble was, letting her go off alone was tantamount to murder—after she and her friends had saved his life. Plague take her. Varian gritted his teeth and stormed out after her.
Chapter Four
Ali’s mouth would probably water when he saw this one, Esme reflected as they neared Rrogozhina two days later. Though the Vizier’s court boasted some of the most beautiful youths in the Ottoman Empire, the English lord would make them look like trolls. Tall and well-formed, he carried himself with all the arrogant assurance of a sultan, even while they trudged through slimy marshland, the torrents beating relentlessly at them. His insolence was bound to win respect, for in these realms the meek inherited only abuse. His looks, furthermore, would surely make more than one courtier weep.
His skin was as fair and smooth as a pampered concubine’s, yet his beauty was purely masculine—an irresistible combination to many men. But they’d yearn in vain.
The English lord, Petro had told her, was addicted to women. Though the man’s licentiousness was common knowledge, the Italian women had flocked to him like flies to manure. Of course, the gossiping Petro had boasted, the lord selected only the most beautiful and sophisticated of those who so shamelessly offered themselves to him.
The dragoman had shared this information while his master slept. If Esme meant to travel with them, she must help keep an eye on the master, Petro warned, lest he make advances to virtuous Albanian women and get them all embroiled in a blood feud.
“He’ll hardly find the other sort on the way to Tepelena,” Esme had answered. “We’re not likely to meet up with courtesans in these parts. Just tell him he must wait. Ali will give him as many as he likes.”
“No, you must tell him, for he never listens to me. He says he cannot understand my English. You will tell him, and explain so cleverly, as you did the other night. Never have I seen him so angry. I thought he would beat you. But you scold and he only smiles and listens.”
The Englishman was not smiling now. His gray eyes were fixed on the humble village ahead, and his face had set into taut lines.
“Rrogozhina,” she said. “I told you we would reach it well before dark.”
“You said it was an important town. I count six houses—or hovels. It’s hard to tell where the mud leaves off and architecture begins.”
“I told you the site marked an important crossroads,” she said. “Two branches of the ancient Romans’ Via Egnatia meet here, one from Apollonia and one from Durres.”
“Then the Romans have fallen sadly behind in upkeep. Even had Caesar Augustus possessed the visionary powers of the god he claimed to be, I would defy him to discern so much as a path, let alone two great roads in this godforsaken sea of mud. For two days we’ve crawled through it. Two days to cover twenty miles—to reach a cluster of muddy little huts which, as far as I can see, were abandoned by all human inhabitants about six centuries ago.”
“You were expecting Paris, perhaps, efendi?”
“I was hoping for something connected, however distantly, to civilization.”
Esme experienced a powerful desire to connect her boot with his backside, but told herself he was like a spoiled child and didn’t know any better. Also, being childish, he was relatively easily managed. If he were not, they’d yet be huddled in the cramped shelter by the mouth of the Shkumbi.
Fortunately, he needed her far more than she needed him. In England he may have been a powerful lord; in Albania he was helpless as a baby.
Efendi, she’d called him, as a joke, from the first. It was a title of respect, yes, but for a learned man, a scholar or cleric. She might have called him a pile of offal, for all he understood or cared to understand. Y’Al-lah, but these Englis
h lords were ignorant provincials—and proud to be so, evidently.
“I shall not tell you,” she said now, “not to make such remarks to the villagers, for you are an English gentleman, and Jason told me a true gentleman is courteous.”
“I am not a gentleman. I am an animate piece of mud, crawling with fleas.”
“Yet I will warn you not to flirt with the women.”
His head turned slowly toward her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are not deaf. Don’t flirt with the women, if you wish to depart Rrogozhina in one piece. If we come across a whore, I shall tell you so, but it’s most unlikely we will. Albania has many more men than women, and the women are guarded jealously. A Moslem, for instance, may pay as much as a thousand piastres for his bride. An important investment. Please keep this in mind.”
He glanced ahead at the mass of structures, lumpen forms in the gray rain, then back at her. “Certainly I will. Thank you for the warning. How dreadful if I should run amok among Rrogozhina’s hordes of fair maidens.”
“There is no need to be sarcastic,” she said.
“I should like to know,” he said, “what put it into your head that I’d flirt with every female who crossed my path.”
Petro, at present, trailed miserably many yards behind them. Even though he couldn’t possibly hear, Esme was reluctant to reveal her source. She didn’t want the master to know she’d gossiped with his servant.
“Because you look as though you do,” she said. “I should be interested to watch you flirt sometime, for surely it would be amusing, but I must wait until we reach Tepelena, I expect.”
“Watch me?”
“Flirt,” she clarified. “I am certainly not curious about the rest. That is a private matter.”
“Esme,” he said, “do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”
“Yes. Jason told me, because I had no family to shelter me. He felt it was best I understood these matters, lest my ignorance be used against me.”
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