The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  “Not if it’s about warfare. I’m a man of peace. A lazy idler, as I told you.”

  “Njeri i plogSt,” she said. “Sluggard man. Lazy bones.”

  To his ears, the Albanian language sounded guttural and harsh, as thick and rough as their blankets. When uttered in her low-pitched voice, however, the rough syllables became rich and breathy. Last night, the caressing sound of her quiet good night had nearly undone him.

  The memory made him restless. “Teach me,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “It is an ancient language, you know, much inflected. Like Latin, but harder to pronounce. The consonants will strangle your tongue.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said. He gave up his lolling pose to sit upright and cross-legged, as she did. “It will occupy me until bedtime. Moreover, it will give you an ideal opportunity to make me appear ridiculous.”

  “I may die of laughter, efendi. Then you’ll have only Petro as interpreter.”

  “No, I’ll be dead, too, throttled by my own tongue.”

  “Very well. I warn you, though, it will be difficult.” She considered briefly. “Perhaps no declensions at first, or you may begin weeping.” She held up her strong little hand. “Dorg—hand. There is definite and indefinite. DorS, dora. But I suppose you cannot hear the difference?”

  He gave her a blank look.

  “It is not important,” she said patiently. “No one will expect you to be a scholar. Say it the best you can.”

  “Doh-lah,” he responded gravely.

  “No, no. Not V but ‘r.’ “ She obligingly burred the ‘r,’ parting her mouth slightly to demonstrate.

  Varian was fully capable of mimicking the sound, and knew he shouldn’t play games with her. On the other hand, how could he resist, when she so ingenuously offered her luscious mouth for his perusal?

  A child’s mouth, said a reproachful voice in the back of his head. He didn’t listen.

  Varian St. George had never heeded nagging internal voices in his life, and was ill-equipped to begin now. What conscience he owned existed in hopeless decrepitude. A mere glimpse of temptation was sufficient to stifle it.

  “Doh-dah,” he said.

  She gazed at him with the stoical resignation of a tutor confronted with a mentally deficient child. She sought simpler nouns, naming objects in the tent, but nothing was simple enough. Varian listened and watched attentively, then murdered every word.

  Determined to teach the thickheaded Englishman, Esme moved closer to allow him better study of the movement of lips and tongue as she formed the syllables.

  “Koke,” she said, pointing to her head. “Those are like English sounds, are they not?” She touched her straight, delicately shaped nose with the tip of her finger. “Unde.”

  Eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, ears, mouth—she recited them one by one, as patiently persistent as any evangelist intent on a sinner’s salvation. So near, so invitingly near. He wanted to touch her, to trail his finger along the silky gold of her cheek.

  “Goje,” she said, pointing to her mouth. “Come, it is not so hard.”

  No, her mouth was soft and full and moist. Come, she’d said. “Koke, syrte, wide,” he said softly, perfectly. He leaned closer. He wanted that mouth, and it was all in the world he wanted or knew at that moment.

  “Goje,” he whispered. His lips brushed hers—the lightest caress of a kiss, yet something crackled in him, like fear, and he drew back, startled.

  Not nearly so startled as she. Her green eyes opened wide in astonishment. Then her face blazed scarlet. Her hand shot out and whacked the side of his head so hard that his ears rang and his eyes watered.

  “That was not amusing.” She began rubbing her mouth vigorously.

  As he gingerly massaged the side of his head, Varian decided he’d never met with a more deflating—or appropriate—response. He’d been slapped before, on the rare occasion, though not nearly so hard. Never, however, had one of his kisses been wiped away with such utter revulsion.

  Still, what did he expect? How had he dared to soil her innocent mouth with his? Damn, and how could he not, being what he was, and finding her so…enchanting? Which she was, astonishingly enough, despite her ragged, hideous boy’s attire and that godawful woolen helmet.

  At the moment, however, Varian’s most urgent problem was how to pacify her. Admittedly, he’d experienced a moment of insanity, but he was fully in control now. The men outside, on the other hand, were drunk.

  “You didn’t find Petro’s behavior yesterday amusing, either, yet you didn’t give him a concussion,” Varian pointed out in aggrieved tones.

  “He did not insult my person,” she said icily.

  “I assure you, Esme, I meant no insult.”

  “I know. You meant only a joke. You pretended you could not say the words—”

  “You played a joke on me a short while ago,” he interrupted. “Perhaps I wanted to get even.”

  This gave her pause. It was very curious—and convenient, certainly—how easily she accepted revenge as an excuse. Varian only wished she wouldn’t weigh his case with precisely that sulky expression. He wanted to kiss the pout away, or tickle her, or do something…which would only offend her dignity further and no doubt result in his immediate demise. Really, you’d think he was twelve years old. Perhaps this was a case of premature senility, the result of years of dissipation and—

  “Very well,” she said. “I made you appear foolish, and so you did the same to me. Still, I will warn you to keep such revenge to words, efendi. Otherwise, on the way to Tepelena, we may find ourselves in a blood feud. To insult another’s person is to strike a blow,” she explained, “which likely will be returned. One time, one of us may be tempted to strike a fatal one.”

  Lord love the girl. She saw no difference between being kissed and having her ears boxed. Vain, had she called him? He’d not be for long, in her company.

  “I quite agree,” he said. “I did overstep a bit with the kiss. Fortunately, you took your revenge quickly, so I will not have to lie awake all night, wondering what ghastly way you’ll find to get even.”

  “No, and I shall not have to lie awake devising sufficient ghastliness.” She paused, and turned her head slightly, listening.

  Outside, there was only the faint sibilance of the drizzle.

  “The others have gone to sleep,” she said. “We’d best do the same.”

  As he helped her arrange the blankets, Varian noticed with some surprise that she placed hers next to his, just as though nothing had happened. Clearly, she did not assume the “revenge kiss” implied her virtue was in any danger. In that case, the words of reassurance he’d contemplated offering would have quite the opposite effect, and alarm her needlessly.

  He may have kissed her, but that was so brief you could hardly call it a kiss, and certainly he wouldn’t attempt to ravish the girl while she slept. He would not touch her, he told himself. In fact, he’d stay awake until she fell asleep, then move his blankets some distance away so he couldn’t touch her, even unconsciously. Gad, at this rate, not a shred of indecency would be left to him, he thought ruefully.

  Esme woke to darkness and the not entirely unfamiliar sensation of weight upon her. A long arm curled round her waist, and a long, lean body pressed along the length of her back. She had wrapped her blanket about her like a cocoon, and no part of his flesh touched hers, yet she was as acutely aware of every masculine bone and sinew as if she were naked. The images she conjured up made her face hot, and she stirred uneasily.

  He mumbled something into her neck, and the arm pressed her closer. Then abruptly, it jerked away, and the heavy warmth of him vanished, too. He thrashed at the blankets. “Bloody hell,” his voice came, a growling whisper.

  She turned and found he was sitting up.

  “I woke you,” he said.

  “I was awake,” she said to his shadowy form. “It is nearly dawn.”

  “Have I been crushing you the whole curst night?” He sounded angry.
>
  “You are large, but you are not an elephant. I am not crushed.”

  Only embarrassed, she added inwardly. To be held so was more than warming; it made something inside her rush and pound, like a flock of swallows beating their wings. She’d felt that when his lips had touched hers: a terrible sweetness, come and gone in an instant, and afterward the flurried throbbing within. She should have felt nothing, and so was dismayed with herself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—I didn’t insult you, did I?”

  “No.”

  There was a long pause. Then he said in more normal tones, “And I trust you didn’t insult my person, did you, miss?”

  “No! What do you—” Her face burned. “Oh, it is a joke.”

  “Or wishful thinking,” he muttered. He caught his breath, then went on. “That is to say, I distinctly felt something bite me, and I rather hoped it was you because—”

  “You wished me to bite you?”

  “Because otherwise it was some other creature that bit me. There being a great many of them and only one of you, the latter odds were less disheartening, you see.”

  “Then perhaps you should not sleep so close, efendi. I think the fleas find you more appetizing, and so mine may travel to you,” she added guiltily.

  “I don’t mean to sleep so close. It just seems to happen. I suppose you find me very troublesome.”

  The air in the tent carried a faint, fresh promise of morning, and the heavy darkness was receding, leaving a somber veil of gray light in its wake. He sat with his knees drawn up and his arms loosely crossed upon them. Even in the gloomy shadows, he seemed a work of sculptor’s art, too beautiful to be mortal flesh and blood. He was indeed troublesome, she thought. Her mind should remain fixed on her duty, on a father’s murder to be avenged, but this man called her mind away to fasten on him instead.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You won’t believe this, Esme, but normally I’m most agreeable company. It’s one of my few talents. I can make myself agreeable to just about anybody.”

  He hesitated, then went on in light tones, “Otherwise, I’d surely have starved to death by now. You see, all I’ve got to my name is my name. That and a skill for pleasing is what feeds, clothes, and houses me.”

  She turned a disbelieving gaze upon him.

  “It’s quite true,” he assured her. “Like my untitled brothers, the fleas, I’m a parasite. But a charming one. I never bite, for instance.”

  “I believe you can be agreeable,” she said. “At least to the women, or you would not have had so many.”

  “I should like to know exactly what Petro has been telling you. I’m sure it’s a hideous exaggeration—”

  “He said you were addicted to females, and that they all throw themselves at you shamelessly, and so you’ve had your pick of Italy’s most beautiful women. I understand Italy has many such,” she said expressionlessly.

  “I have not been a monk, precisely, but—”

  “Therefore I am not surprised you can be charming. I was surprised only that you are poor.” Esme did not want to reflect further upon the series of mouths he’d kissed—and not in joke—or the voluptuous bodies his smooth, long fingers had caressed—and not recoiled from.

  “I am penniless,” he said. “That’s no exaggeration.”

  “Then it is one thing we have in common,” she said.

  “I doubt it raises your opinion of me, however.”

  “My opinion is of no consequence.”

  “If it weren’t, I shouldn’t be going to all this bother to tell you what a pleasant fellow I really am. I wish you would pay attention, Esme, and stop distracting me,” he complained. “There was a point I wished to make, about two centuries ago, before you detoured into my promiscuity.”

  “I beg your pardon, efendi. “ Folding her hands, Esme gave him her full attention—and found it very difficult to suppress a smile. With that aggrieved expression on his face and his black hair tousled every which way, he looked like a sulky schoolboy.

  “I was trying to explain,” he said reproachfully, “that I’m not naturally bad-tempered. It’s the fleas and the dirt. Even those I could endure stoically enough if I could be assured of regular, hot baths and fresh changes of clothing. But to sleep in the same filthy clothes I traveled in all day, then to wake and spend another filthy day in the same foul garments, while the vermin continue to feed and breed upon me—well, it does make me wild.”

  She did smile then, though she looked away. “Ah, Varian Shenjt Gjergj, you call yourself penniless, yet I cannot imagine such a life as you live. Hot baths whenever you wish, and always clean clothes. I doubt even the most pampered of a rich man’s concubines knows such luxury. If this is what you are accustomed to, it is not surprising that our journey makes you cross. I shall try to be more understanding in the future.”

  “You think I’m childish, all the same,” he said. “Shall I tell you what it’s like, and let you judge whether it’s childish to want such things?”

  “As you wish,” she said with a shrug. “It is too late to go back to sleep. The others will rise soon.”

  “Then let me charm you. Let me paint you a picture.” He unfolded his long body to lean back on his elbows, and closed his eyes.

  Then he began to speak, his voice soft and dreamy as he described a luxurious room, the floors laid with rich carpets…coals glowing in the hearth...an enormous copper tub, smooth and deep, filled with steaming water. There was soap, sweet with the scent of herbs and flowers, and a maidservant gently washing her. There was Esme, luxuriating in the scented warmth…then rising from the water like Aphrodite…soft, thick towels enveloping her. He painted Paradise, but it was more than a painting. The words and his dreamy tone seeped into her very soul and made her ache with longing.

  She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until the low, smoky sound of his voice abruptly ceased. Opening them, she found him staring at her very strangely, the smile gone. She flushed and looked away.

  “Oh, Lord,” he murmured. Then he scrambled up and strode out of the tent.

  Chapter Seven

  Ignoring the men staring at him in sleepy astonishment, Varian stomped toward the river. En route, he nearly collided with Petro, who’d emerged from behind a bush, hastily arranging his trousers.

  “What is wrong, master?” he cried as Varian thrust past him.

  “Nothing.”

  “But you are angry, master. Is it the child? Y’Allah, what has the little wretch done now?” Petro asked, trotting alongside.

  “I’m not angry,” Varian ground out. “I’m going to have a wash, and I don’t need an escort. Go make yourself useful, and try to boil some coffee that doesn’t taste as though it were spewed from a cesspit.”

  “A wash?” Petro shrieked. “In the river? You will freeze your privates, and they will drop off like pieces of ice.”

  “Go make the coffee, drat you, and leave me in peace.”

  Petro uttered a soulful sigh, then shrugged and turned back toward the camp, doubtless to inform the company that his master had taken leave of his senses.

  He would not be far wrong, Varian thought. Certainly the master no longer recognized his own mind. When the Turk had struck his head, some rotting mental door to the blackest part of Varian’s soul had surely come unhinged. Because only the most corrupt and depraved of men could lust for a child.

  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her, yet he’d wakened with Esme’s slight body crushed to his, and his own rigid with wanting. Even when he sat talking normally, it wasn’t normal at all. The whole time he’d contrived excuses for himself: she wasn’t really a child, not by her country’s standards; she was old enough to wed and bear children, therefore old enough to be bedded.

  He knew that wanting her was wrong, and all his twisted reasoning wouldn’t make it right. All the same, her low, soft voice was right, and that whisper of a body had felt right enough in his arms. And so he’d chattered nothing but d
rivel, more excuses, and hated himself because he couldn’t stop making them.

  He’d felt, Varian reflected in frustration, like a schoolboy, infatuated with a girl who’d as soon knock him down as look at him. He’d behaved like one, too, trying to coax tolerance from her, or, dammit, even pity.

  Which had backfired nicely, hadn’t it? To speak of bathing, of all things, and burn that image in his mind: her slim, untouched body stepping from the bath into his waiting arms…her skin, naked and wet against his…her soft, ripe mouth offering up its innocence to his.

  He groaned and sank to his knees at the river’s edge. Closing his eyes, he plunged his hands into the frigid torrent and gasped at the shock. Determinedly, he drenched his face. It wasn’t enough. He needed a punishment he’d recollect with dread the next time this filthy lust got hold of him.

  Varian set his teeth and began to pull off his clothes.

  “I think he has gone mad,” Petro said sadly as he took the blankets from Esme. She’d sent the protesting dragoman back after his master, and Petro had reached the stream in time to see his lordship emerge naked and shivering from the icy water.

  “He complained of the dirt and fleas,” she answered, betraying none of her own anxiety. “Besides, he’s English, and they have strange customs.”

  Not until the party was well on its way, and Petro safely out of hearing range, did she express her feelings to his lordship.

  “Why must you do such a stupid thing?” she scolded. “Did I nurse you for nothing? Is the journey not hard enough for you? Must you make yourself ill? The streams are cold enough in the height of summer. Now they will stop the blood in your veins, and your limbs will fall off.”

  “Actually, I found the experience most…invigorating,” he answered. “My blood still tingles.”

  “You are a crazy man. And I warn you, if you become sick, I shall not nurse you again. I shall stand by your deathbed and laugh.”