The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  “I am not—”

  The rest came out in a choked oath, as Esme found herself swiftly caught up in his arms and deposited upon the bed. She instantly bolted to her feet, but his hands clamped down on her shoulders. Instinctively, she retreated from the hard column of his body and felt the edge of the bed press against her thighs. “Do not think you can vanquish me so easily, efendi,” she declared. “If you do not release me and move out of the way, you shall feel the weight of my boot on your noble foot.”

  Defiant words, it turned out, were no match for two firm hands. Scarcely had she finished speaking when her bottom landed on the bunk. Before she could bounce up again, he got hold of her foot. Esme tumbled backward, and while she struggled to regain her balance, he pulled off first one boot, then the other.

  “Stomp on my feet now, if you like,” he said, still holding her ankle prisoner, “but you shall not spoil my lovely stockings, little wildcat.”

  “Silk,” she sneered, despite the unnerving awareness of the long fingers clasping her ankle. “Only a concubine would wear silk upon her feet.”

  He studied the thickly hosed foot he held. “Much pleasanter than scratchy wool, I assure you. If you’re a good girl, perhaps I’ll send you silk stockings from Italy for your trousseau. Your stockings are still damp,” he added. “That’s unhealthy.”

  She tried to jerk free, but both wool socks came off with the same swift ease as the boots. Her heart pounding, Esme concluded that he must have had a great deal of experience relieving women of their clothing. And why the devil would he not release her? You’d think he’d never seen feet before, the way he stared.

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Her feet were not so very dirty, but then, not so very clean, either. Not like the clean, soapy smell of his head. In the glow of candle and hearth, his black hair glistened like jet beads.

  “Your feet are so tiny,” he said in soft surprise. “Small, fine bones, like a bird’s.” His finger lightly traced a muscle to her ankle, and the thread of warmth he drew there spread upward to her knee and made her tremble.

  He looked up, and it seemed for a moment as though the air between them vibrated, like the strings of a mandolin. In the room’s amber light, his clean-shaven face gleamed smooth as polished marble, but his gray eyes had darkened, grown strangely intent. A lock of black hair tumbled to his eyebrow, and she wanted to brush it back. The wish made her feel weak, and wistful.

  “Let go of me,” she said in a tiny voice she didn’t recognize.

  “Oh.” He blinked, and the shimmering warmth vanished from his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He released her. “I forgot…that is…you have lovely feet.” His voice, too, sounded strange.

  Her heart battered confusedly within her chest, like a moth beating at a window. “My feet are dirty,” she said tightly.

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t think—Well, I suppose no one bothered much about you, did they?” He stood up. “If you’d like to wash, I’ll step out of the room for a bit.”

  Without waiting for her answer, he left. After a moment’s hesitation, Esme darted for the pitchers. With furious speed, she stripped to the skin, then savagely scrubbed herself from top to bottom. There wasn’t enough water to wash her hair, so she untangled it as best she could with her fingers, then wove it into a single braid to keep it out of her face.

  When she heard his returning footsteps, she was just pulling on her shirt. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. “I am not yet dressed,” she called softly.

  “Just as well. Our host’s nephew or cousin or grandson or whatever has donated a clean shirt for you to sleep in.” The door curtain parted slightly, and he tossed the garment inside.

  Blushing hotly, Esme snatched it up and hurriedly threw it over her head. It fell well past her knees.

  “I—I’m decent now,” she said, suddenly feeling foolish. She had no need of his approval. What did it matter to him if she was clean or dirty? She was an ugly little savage, his guide and interpreter, that was all.

  Outside the door, Varian hesitated. There was plenty of room elsewhere. Perhaps he should let her have the chamber to herself. She was far away from the men. She’d be safe enough. Except that he didn’t like to leave her alone. She was too much alone in the world…and too young.

  He should not have teased her. Though young, she was not entirely a child, and he most certainly wasn’t, either. He was no older brother who might tumble her about in innocent horseplay. Varian St. George had left innocence behind long ago. All the same, he’d been shocked to find himself stroking her foot—and a heartbeat away from worse. That small, bewildered voice…she must have seen it in his eyes, or sensed it.

  It didn’t matter, he told himself. She didn’t, couldn’t know. He’d pretend nothing had happened. Nothing had. It had all happened in his mind, which obviously had snapped. Hardly surprising in the circumstances.

  He flung back the curtain, entered—and nearly stumbled.

  Esme stood before the fire, her stance stiff and defiant and her color very high. If she’d any inkling what the firelight revealed beneath the lamentably thin nightshirt, she’d probably turn purple. He ought to tell her. That was the gentlemanly thing to do. And he’d do it, in a moment—but, oh, Lord, was there ever anything so sweet? The slight swell of her taut young breasts, and a breath of a waist rounding ever so subtly into slim hips and firm, slender thighs and…

  In short, she was a nymph whom Artemis herself had surely fashioned.

  Belatedly, Varian saw her growing edgy under his ogling. Gad, he hoped he wasn’t so obvious as that. “You’re so…tiny,” he said.

  “Papa said the women of his family were late to mature.” She lifted her chin. “I will grow.”

  Varian thought he’d like to be there when she did. Aloud he said, “Certainly. You’ve lots of time.” He moved to collect a pillow and two more blankets from the vast heap on the bunk.

  “One of my friends grew two inches between her first babe and her second,” she said defensively.

  “One of your friends?” He turned to her, unconsciously clutching the cushion to his belly. “How young do Albanian girls wed?”

  “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” She shrugged. “They’re often betrothed at birth and wed when they’re old enough to bear children. But Jason would not do so with me, because it was not his country’s custom.”

  “Good heavens, I should say not.” Varian tossed pillow and blankets atop the one she’d laid out by the hearth. “Girls in England wait until they’re eighteen to go on the Marriage Mart—at least among the upper orders. Even then, I much doubt they’re sufficiently adult to become mothers.”

  Her gaze grew thoughtful. “Yes, I expect they’re much sheltered,” she said. To his relief, she moved away from the fire and toward the bunk, the contemplation of which drew her full mouth down into a frown.

  “You will be cold on the floor,” she said, her gaze still upon the bed.

  “My dear girl, last night I slept in a leaking tent in a typhoon.”

  “But you had a body on either side to keep you warm.”

  This, Varian thought, was not the time to remind him. It would be a deal cozier to share the bed with her, but tonight he hadn’t Petro as chaperon, and tonight, of all times, he had experienced disquieting feelings about a very young, innocent girl. Suppose this should trigger another lascivious dream and liberties similar to or even greater than those he’d taken a few nights ago in his sleep? Then, at least, she had been fully armored in her rough woolen garments. Now there was as good as nothing between his depraved hands and her innocent flesh. No, he would not think about that.

  “I’ll be sufficiently warm here by the hearth,” he said. “Really, Esme, I don’t want the bed. I want you to consider it as—as amends, you see. For my rudely tumbling you about a while ago,” he hastily improvised. “And—and because I’ve been such a pestilential traveling companion, and will likely continue so.”

  She turned and looked at hi
m, the faintest hint of a smile on her otherwise grave countenance. “The bed is my revenge, efendi?”

  “Exactly.”

  With a low chuckle, she climbed onto the bed and comfortably established herself in her customary Buddhalike pose. “In that case, I shall enjoy it to the fullest. It is very soft,” she added.

  Varian sighed and pulled off his coat. “I expect it is.” He unwound his neckcloth and dropped it on the floor.

  “You are most untidy,” she said. “Also, your neck will get cold.”

  “Would you rather I strangled myself? And do you mean to sit there and watch me disrobe?”

  “I did not know you intended to disrobe altogether. You will be very cold,” she said. “Also, it is immodest to undress without putting out the candles first.”

  “Also, it is a tedious business to find one’s buttons in the dark. Can’t you just put your head under the covers? Unless, that is, you wish to admire my manly beauty,” he added provokingly.

  This did not fluster her as he’d expected. She regarded him coolly for a moment, then equally coolly, drew up the blankets and lay down with her back to him.

  “Petro was right,” she said scornfully. “You have no modesty at all. Also, you are vain. Not that I am surprised, when I see how the women become like drunkards when they look at you.” She yawned. “Still, if you wish to prance about the room naked, that is your affair. Perhaps the activity will keep you warm.”

  “What an elegant picture you paint,” Varian said, grinning in spite of himself. “The twelfth Baron Edenmont dancing about in his birthday suit like a—like a—”

  “A faun,” she supplied. “Or a satyr. Or perhaps like Eros. But no, you are too old for that—”

  “Eros will do nicely. At least you attribute to me some sort of godlike quality—”

  “He was blind.”

  Varian gave up and, laughing to himself, put out the candles. When he came, still smiling, to the last—the one nearest the bed—he paused to look at her. She lay curled on her side, snuggled deep beneath the blankets. The candlelight drew fiery threads in her hair. A part of him wanted to stroke her hair. Another part wanted, absurdly, to tuck her in. He did neither.

  “Good night, madam,” he said.

  “Naten e mirs, Varian Shenjt Gjergj,” she answered.

  The Albanian words fell upon his ears soft as a caress. Varian hesitated a moment, then resolutely turned, put out the candle, and headed for his lonely pallet on the floor.

  Chapter Six

  Though Lushnja was supposedly a mere ten or so miles south, Varian’s party was unable to reach it by sunset. The nearest bridge across the Shkumbi was some miles west of Rrogozhina. They crossed minutes before the ramshackle structure was swept into the river.

  Once that horror was behind them, they faced a pathless wasteland. The rains having obliterated the road, they had to detour farther east, close to the low hills. Trapped on the fringes of this marshy coastal plain, the small group progressed by inches. In the downpour, even with horses, they advanced no more rapidly than they had done previously on foot.

  At present, however, Varian barely noticed his physical surroundings. His mind was fixed on other matters, such as the men who formed his escort. A less reassuring lot was difficult to imagine.

  Esme had insisted they were good, reliable fighters. Certainly they appeared fierce enough: tall and sinewy, their mustachioed countenances dark and leathery under the hoods of filthy cloaks. Their rough manner and low, terse speech was scarcely calculated to win an Englishman’s trust, however.

  In their midst, Esme seemed smaller and more vulnerable than ever, terribly in need of protection. That they didn’t seem to suspect she was a female was in no way comforting, given the practices common in these parts. Varian thought the men watched her too closely. He had a strong suspicion what was in their minds, though she clearly didn’t.

  It was in his thoughts too much for comfort. Admittedly, she was a lovely child. He’d recognized that even before he’d discerned the alluring subtlety of her nymph’s body. Her sun-burnished complexion was smooth and soft, her full, ripe mouth softer yet, begging to be kissed. But that was the whole trouble. She was a child, and Varian St. George had no taste for children, and therefore no business thinking about her mouth or any part of her.

  Only he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Repeatedly his mind thrust before him the disquieting moment when he’d caressed her foot and gazed into the beguiling green depths of her eyes, and felt the first treacherous stirrings of desire.

  Alarming as it was, Varian assured himself, the attraction was easily explained. He’d not touched a woman in weeks. This, coupled with a miserable journey in filthy weather through a hellish terrain, had disordered his mind. He perceived Esme as a woman because he wanted one, and she was the only female at hand.

  Nonetheless, a temporary celibacy would not kill him. He was a gentleman and, while admittedly dissolute, certainly possessed sufficient honor to keep his hands to himself. Unfortunately, he much doubted the same could be said of the men escorting them.

  When at last they stopped for the night and the Albanian men began to set up camp, Varian took her aside.

  “I think it will be best if you continue sharing my tent,” he said.

  Seeing rebellion smolder in her eyes and the stubborn jut of her chin, Varian added, “Arguing with me is a waste of breath. You’ll only tell me how illogical and foolish I am. But being so, I’m not likely to heed a word, am I?”

  “If you are foolish,” she said with exaggerated patience, “how can you know what is best?”

  “I said I thought, not that I knew,” he answered even more patiently. “Perhaps what I think is idiotic, but my dear girl, it’s the best I can do.”

  She considered this, her meditative expression a comical replica of Percival’s when puzzled by a geological specimen.

  “I see,” she said after a moment. “It is much like last night. You have some deranged belief that you must guard and protect me. You see danger here, where it is not, just as you saw no danger in Durres, where it was. Y’Allah, you are so confused. I begin to think your mother dropped you on your head when you were a babe.”

  Varian kept his face straight. “One ought to be patient with the mentally unbalanced.”

  “For my patience with you, I should be made a saint,” she retorted. “All while we travel, it is either complaint or sarcasm. As though your disapproval will change the weather, or magically rebuild the roads the rain has washed away.”

  He had been grumpy, Varian realized. Being displeased with himself, he’d expressed displeasure with everything else.

  “I’m dreadfully spoiled,” he said. “I’ve lived a sheltered life, I’m afraid, and an idle one. Traveling in your country is hard work, and I’ve never even done a day’s easy work in my life.”

  “Aye, and such a man thinks he can protect me. Never have I heard anything so crazy.” She began to move away.

  Varian lightly caught her arm to stop her. “Crazy or not, I want you to stay away from the others,” he said. “If they observe you closely, they’ll surely discover you’re not what you seem. We’ll eat together in my tent, and there you’ll spend the night. It’s the only sensible thing to do.”

  She shook her head.

  “Esme,” he whispered harshly, “while I may be spoiled, I am larger than you, and I am quite serious about this.”

  “I understand, efendi.”

  “Yet you refuse?”

  She hesitated, then nodded and clicked her tongue.

  What in blazes was the problem? As he was trying to devise a more convincing approach, he caught the glint of amusement in her eyes.

  “May I ask what you find so humorous?” he asked. “Is a flea crawling up my nose?”

  She nodded. Though he’d felt nothing, he instantly let go of her to brush at his nose.

  “Four days in my country and you never noticed this simple thing,” she said. “When we shake our
heads, that is ‘Yes.’ When we nod, that is ‘No.’ Did you not say yourself we were backward? So it is.” She laughed, mightily amused at her wit.

  “I see you mean to make me the butt of your jokes the whole long way to Tepelena,” he said. “I must resign myself to playing the fool—and I a great English bej of tiie pashalik of Buckinghamshire. I can only hope a bej is some sort of nobleman, and not the Albanian word for jackass.”

  This, too, tickled her, and as she dashed away to collect her belongings, she was still laughing.

  Their supper was the most amiable they’d shared so far. Evidently still amused by the earlier exchange, she wasn’t so quick as usual to take offense at every word. This night they dined on fowl, rice, olives, bread, and a malodorous cheese, but Varian made no complaint. He knew he’d behaved disagreeably during the day and had best not try her patience further. She might throw a temper fit and storm off to her countrymen.

  Fortunately, a few swallows of the poisonous grape whiskey they called raki made the rest go down more easily. Brewed, apparently, in the infernos of Hades, it was a demonic liquid fire, more potent even than Italian grappa. The men gulped it down with their meals as though it were spring water. At present, the raucous song and laughter outside told Varian they were drunk, and Petro drunkest of all, no doubt. All the more reason to keep her away from them, Varian told himself righteously.

  “What are they singing? “he asked.

  Esme had cleared away the remains of their meal. She stood now by the tent opening, the flap in her hand as she gazed out. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle.

  “It is the tale of Ali Pasha’s conquest of Prevesa,” she said. “He’s crazy sometimes, but a good general.”

  The tenor voices seemed to wail a funeral chant. That must be the Eastern influence, he thought, with its preference for the minor key.

  She let the flap fall back into place and moved toward the center of the tent, to the rug where he reclined against a low stack of blankets. “Do you want me to translate it?” she asked as she dropped gracefully into a cross-legged position opposite him.