Loretta Chase

by The Lion's Daughter

  “Kill him!” she screamed. “Avenge Jason! Avenge me, Varian!”

  The blade nicked her throat, and she saw Varian’s pistol go up. I love you, she told him silently. Then she bashed her head back against Ismal’s windpipe.

  Just as his grip slackened, something exploded nearby, and Mehmet stumbled. Esme drove her elbow into Ismal’s groin. He staggered back, dropping the knife. Mehmet lurched toward her. Esme dove for the knife, and there was another explosion. For an instant, the world flashed with blinding color. She heard Varian’s cry, far away…and her father’s voice, somewhere in the black wave surging toward her. I’m dying, she thought, and the wave sucked her down.

  Oblivious to the crew swarming from Ismal’s ship and those rushing forward to oppose them, Varian raced toward his fallen wife. He’d seen the small dark man aim his pistol at her just as Varian had fired his own at the big, ugly one. But someone had got hold of the smaller bastard already, and all Varian cared about was Esme.

  Though pandemonium raged about him, all he knew when he bent over her still form was terror, sharp as the blade that had rested against her throat a moment before. As he laid his shaking hand against that throat, tears started to his eyes. A pulse throbbed faintly under his fingers.

  Just as he began to gather her up, a hand ripped into his scalp, violently jerking him back.

  “No!” Ismal screamed. He swung his pistol at Varian’s head. Varian’s arm shot up, and the weapon struck his elbow. Pain shrieked the length of his arm. Rolling sideways, he grabbed Ismal’s leg and brought him down. Ismal kicked free and flung himself at Varian, sending him sprawling back. Varian’s skull struck the wharf with devastating force. His ears rang, and the sky spun crazily above him. Yet he saw the pistol swinging toward him again. He grabbed Ismal’s wrist and slammed it against the wharf’s edge. Ismal only grunted, but his grip loosened, and the weapon skidded away.

  “You fight me for a whore,” he gasped. “My whore.”

  Yanking his hand free, he slammed his fist into Varian’s jaw, sending him reeling back. Varian saw black for an instant, then blood red. Then all sense of pain vanished.

  He struck, was struck in turn, and it was nothing. All that existed was Ismal, to be killed. They struggled furiously, more evenly matched than Varian could have guessed. Slight as he appeared, Ismal was powerful and quick. Blow after blow seemed to have little effect, and as they rolled toward the quay’s edge, his knee drove into Varian’s gut with the force of a cannonball. In the next moment, he was on his back, staring up into Ismal’s contorted face, fighting for breath and consciousness while he struggled futilely with the powerful hands squeezing his throat. Through the darkness slowly suffocating him, Varian saw Ismal’s smile. “My whore,” he panted. “My Esme.”

  The words raged through Varian like hellfire. Grasping Ismal’s wrist, he dug his nails in. With all his remaining strength, he wrenched the hand away and dashed it against the pier’s edge. There was a crack and a low animal howl, and Ismal jerked away, his face twisted in agony. Varian lunged up and knocked him aside. Ismal tried to scramble free, but his useless hand made him slow. Varian caught him and began pounding his head against the pier. The once beautiful face was smeared with dirt and blood. Ismal’s head lolled helplessly, but a glitter lingered in his half-closed eyes.

  “My whore.” The words oozed from his bloodied lips. “My Esme.”

  Just as Varian raised his fist, he was shoved backward. He looked up in time to see a blade flash toward him.

  With a painful effort, Jason thrust Mehmet’s lifeless body aside and struggled to his knees. The chess pieces lay strewn about him, along with his wig and spectacles.

  He was getting too old for this nonsense, he thought. He’d lost his taste for waterfront brawls long ago, and this one ought never have begun. It was that sapskull Edenmont, dashing to the rescue, and that fool girl, with her own heroics.

  Esme was at least safely out of the way. Bajo had hauled her clear of the fray before returning to help Jason clear a path to the main part of the riot, where Edenmont battled Ismal. Ismal’s crew, unfortunately, had got the same idea, along with Mehmet, and flailing bodies now blocked Jason’s view of the place he’d last seen the two men struggling. Rising to his feet, he saw his brother knock one man aside with the butt of his pistol. Another attacked, taking Gerald down, but Gerald flung him off and scrambled to his feet. Furiously he fought his way out of the press of battling men.

  The sight was so incredibly out of character that Jason was momentarily distracted. He came abruptly back to the present as a bloodied sailor sprang from the crowd at him. But not quickly enough. The sailor’s fist crashed into his chest, and Jason staggered back, perilously near the edge of the quay. A hand pulled him to safety, and the sailor, swinging wildly into the air, toppled over the edge.

  Jason turned to his rescuer, and the words of thanks died on his lips as he met his brother’s grim gaze.

  Clenching his teeth against the agony of his crushed wrist, Ismal crawled to the shelter of a heap of casks. He’d taken up the pistol Risto had dropped when he attacked the English lord. It was nearly impossible to reload the weapon with one hand, but Ismal refused to acknowledge impossibility. He was certain a few men remained aboard the Olympias. With luck, he might still get away.

  The vicious throbbing of his hand was making him violently ill. Afraid he’d lose consciousness, he focused his being on reloading. Though it seemed to take lifetimes, he managed at last and peered out from his hiding place.

  Two figures stood between him and the Olympias: Sir Gerald…and a man who was supposed to be dead.

  If his mouth had not been swollen and caked with blood, Ismal would have smiled. All became stunningly clear, all the Red Lion had done, and why. Ismal admired him for it, because he must admire a man who could outwit him. Had he realized…oh, much would have been different, and certainly he’d never have walked into what he saw now was a trap: Edenmont and Sir Gerald on one side, the Red Lion on the other.

  At present, however, only the two brothers blocked his way, and they were quarreling, oblivious to all else.

  Though he’d only the one bullet, the decision was easily made. Ismal stood and, mustering every iota of will to make his left hand obey, aimed. Smiling inwardly, his heart light as an angel’s, he pulled the trigger. The second report followed the first so quickly that they seemed but one ringing vibration. But suddenly fire was raging through his flesh, and a black pit yawned before him, flames licking in its depths.

  “Esme,” he gasped…and fell.

  Slowly, Varian lowered the pistol. The wharf seemed unearthly quiet. Or perhaps the buzzing in his ears drowned out all else. He didn’t know, didn’t care. He’d driven a knife into one man’s gut and just fired a bullet into another. Risto lay dead at his feet…Ismal was an unmoving heap not ten yards away…and beyond, Sir Gerald—fallen, too, because Varian had pulled the trigger an instant too late to save him.

  He turned away. So much blood. The world stank of it. He was stained with it and stank, too.

  Through the buzzing and the rising wave of nausea, he heard someone call his name. He turned back toward the sound. The red-haired man kneeling by Sir Gerald beckoned. Varian drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went to him.

  “Shut up,” Jason warned Gerald. “Edenmont’s here.”

  Edenmont knelt on the other side, his eyes fixed on the crimson stain spreading through Gerald’s shirt.

  Gerald’s eyes moved to him. “Look who’s…back. From the dead. A joker, he is, my brother. Like me. What a…trick I played, eh, Jason?”

  Edenmont’s head snapped up as though he’d been struck. Repeating the name, he scanned Jason’s face.

  “Yes, I’m alive,” Jason snapped. “Get that bag behind you. There’s whiskey in it, and bandages.”

  Gerald clutched his arm. “Tricked you. To get her. Diana for me. The land for Bridgeburton.”

  Jason had hoped Edenmont’s presence would st
op his brother’s tongue, but nothing would. Gasping and choking between words, Gerald babbled on while Jason changed the bandages. But the bleeding wouldn’t stop any more than the rasping voice would. Boasting. Of how they’d plied Jason with absinthe and wine that night so long ago. That’s why he remembered so little of the game, couldn’t recall signing the heaps of IOUs. He thought he’d borrowed a fortune from Bridgebutton because Gerald, the brother he’d trusted, said so and held the notes as proof.

  “Never mind,” Jason gritted out. “You haven’t the breath to spare—and anyhow, I know.”

  “Diana told you.”

  Jason shook his head.

  “She found out,” Gerald went on. “The baby came…early. Your eyes. Hair. Lost my…temper. Said things. Not much, but she…guessed. And I had to be…good…to the boy. Let her do…as she pleased. Or she’d tell…Mama. Twelve years, Jason.”

  This Jason didn’t know and didn’t want to believe. Yet Diana had urged him to hurry back to England. What had she said? I fear when I’m gone…When she was gone, there’s be no one to protect Percival from his father. As she had. From his wrath, from his pernicious mfluerice. By blackmailing Gerald with his vile secret.

  Gerald turned his head toward Edenmont, who knelt there yet, his rigid face betraying nothing.

  “Never guessed, did you?” Gerald gasped. “The bitch Diana was. She let me believe…my son…was Jason’s. Years…in my gut…gnawing. I couldn’t say…a word.” He drew in a rattling breath. “Twelve years. Punished.” His eyes closed. “Loved her.” A last, rattling gasp, and he was gone.

  Jason pulled off his coat and coveted his brother’s face

  “He was delirious,” Edenmont said stiffly. “Poor devil.”

  Jason looked at him. “He was a filthy, treacherous swine, and she managed him the only way she could. Lovely family you’ve married into, isn’t it?”

  Esme raced back towards the quay, the cabin boy charged with guarding her in hot pursuit. Though she didn’t know how long she’d lain unconscious, she feared it had been too long. The din of battle had subsided, and the damp air bore a sharp tang of gunpowder. As the wharf came into view, she saw sailors gathering up the fallen. Searching the crowd of strange faces, she lit upon a large, oddly familiar figure. Esme passed her hand over her eyes. Bajo? He lifted one of the wounded men in his burly arms.

  “My lady, if you please.” The boy was beside her, panting. “Captain Nolcott will have my head—”

  Esme waved him back. “My husband. Where is Lord Edenmont?”

  “I’m sure he’s all right, m’lady. If you’d just—”

  He broke off, apparently transfixed by the same grim sight that had just caught her attention: a litter, borne by sailors, its human burden covered by a bloody cloak.

  “No!” she cried. She ran toward the litter, thrusting aside those in her way until someone caught her arm. Esme looked up into the countenance of one of the naval officers she’d seen earlier. “Please,” she said weakly.

  “My lady, there’s nothing you can do for your uncle. The wound was mortal. I’m sorry.”

  Her uncle. A wave of sick giddiness washed through her, and she swayed. The officer caught her. “You’d better sit down, my lady.”

  Esme nodded sharply. “No. No.” She pulled herself free. “I must…”

  Then she saw him. Blood and dirt caked his face, and at this distance she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. His hair, too, was thick with the filth of recent battle, and the dull copper gleam could well have been blood. His head bowed, he was wiping his face with a dirty kerchief. She knew him, all the same.

  Tears stung her eyes. Angrily rubbing them away, she moved on unsteady legs toward him. The officer was saying something, but it was only noise to her.

  Esme saw the kerchief pause, then drop from her father’s hand. He didn’t move, only watched her approach, his mouth creasing slowly into a smile. The smile made her hurt inside.

  Pausing several feet from where he stood, she set her clenched fists upon her hips. “I hate you.” Her voice came out high and reedy. “I shall never forgive you.”

  Jason’s smile broadened into a grin. “Ah, now, there’s my little girl.” He opened his arms and with a strangled sob, Esme shot into them.

  Her father hugged her briefly, then broke away, cursing and staring at his hands. “Deuce take you, Esme, you’re bleeding!”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Unmoving, unnoticed, Varian stood by the Olympias. He’d started toward Esme, then checked himself when he saw where she was heading. An involuntary smile curved his bruised mouth as he watched her stop, take up an indignant pose, and hurl some epithet at her father. But when she flung herself at Jason, the smile cracked, and something within as well.

  Avenge Jason, she’d cried. She’d been ready to die to avenge him, just as she’d have sacrificed herself in Tepelena for the same cause. Now the father she loved so fiercely was alive…

  Varian tried to strangle the unworthy thought, but it gnawed at him. He’d lost her…she was never his to lose. He’d loved her and wed her against her will. She’d gone with him only because she’d no choice, no one else. She’d said so on their wedding night. I have no one but you. Now, though…

  She was his wife, Varian told himself. No one—not even her father—could take her away. Yet he hung back, because her face would tell him the truth, and he doubted he could bear it.

  Then he heard Jason’s angry cry and saw Esme sag in her father’s arms.

  Panic surged, swamping all else, to drive Varian across the wharf in the space of a heartbeat. He wrenched Esme’s dead weight from her staggering father and lifted her in his arms. Her shirt was sticky with blood, and Jason was bellowing for a doctor. Varian cradled his wife closer and hurried toward the village.

  In minutes a crowd was swarming about him, everyone talking at once, advising, warning. He paid them no heed.

  As they neared the buildings, Esme’s eyes fluttered open, and she mumbled in Albanian.

  “It’s all right, love,” Varian said thickly. “You’ll be all right. Don’t try to talk. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Put me down,” she said.

  Relief tightened his chest. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Shut up,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”

  He made direct for the nearest respectable-looking establishment, which belonged to a shipping agent. Varian kicked open the door. “Get a doctor,” he told the startled man at the desk. “My wife’s hurt.”

  Esme closed her eyes and muttered under her breath. The man hastily opened the door to his private parlor, and Varian carried Esme inside.

  As the shipping agent was hustling out, Jason stormed in, dragging a doctor with him.

  Varian very tenderly placed his swooning wife on the sofa. When the physician entered, however, she became sharply alert and ordered him away.

  It took both Jason and Varian to keep her still while Mr. Fern examined her. She swore while he cleaned the mercifully shallow path Risto’s bullet had torn at the back of her shoulder, and cursed the doctor in acutely personal terms while he wrapped her in bandages.

  Mr. Fern stoically endured her abuse, merely remarking that her ladyship was wonderfully high-spirited. “I’d simply suggest one watch for signs of concussion. The wound is minor, as you quite rightly point out, my lady,” he said soothingly. “Still, you have two nasty lumps—”

  “Three,” she corrected. “Three stupid men fussing like old women.”

  Mr. Fern made her a polite bow. With equal courtesy he described the symptoms to watch for and what to do about them. He then courteously accepted the coins Jason pressed into his hand and bowed himself out.

  “I certainly feel old at this moment,” Jason told his daughter. “Altogether too ancient for these highjinks.”

  “You are also dirty and disgusting.” Esme’s glance flicked uneasily over Varian. “Both of you. And do not tell me it is all my fault. I know well enough.”

&n
bsp; “Of course it’s not your fault,” Varian said hastily.

  “Certainly not,” said Jason. “She’d not have been here in the first place if she hadn’t wed a selfish reprobate who can’t be bothered to look after his own wife properly.”

  Varian’s face heated. “In the first place, if you’d bothered to look after your daughter properly, she’d never have met me.”

  “Don’t tell me my duty, you insolent degenerate!”

  “I, at least, did not leave her to a pack of murderous sodomites and pederasts!”

  Esme scrambled up from the sofa and planted herself between them. “Aman, have we not shed blood enough, but you must make blood feud between you? You will not call my husband names,” she told her father. “Again and again he has saved my life, and all he gets is trouble. You will make no more for him, Jason. I am trouble enough.”

  When she turned to Varian, the fire went out of her eyes. “I am sorry, Varian. I am not a good wife.” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in his battered coat.

  His arms went around her. He forgot his mortified rage, forgot the father-in-law who despised him. All that mattered was that Esme was alive. All he wanted at this moment was to hold her.

  Jason cleared his throat. “I think I’ll have a wash,” he said.

  Leaving his son-in-law and daughter to their maudlin reunion, Jason headed for the Bridge Inn. After washing and changing, he dispatched a message to his mother, then arranged with the innkeeper for rooms and a change of clothing for Varian and Esme. Immediately thereafter, Jason met again with Captain Nolcott.

  Sir Gerald Brentmor had expressed a wish to be buried at sea, Jason told the captain. His remains would travel on the same ship with Ismal.

  “Two corpses then,” said the captain. “That boy won’t live out the day.”

  So Mr. Fern confirmed a short while later, when he exited the room in which Ismal lay. The physician had removed the bullet and set the broken hand, though he was convinced both operations were futile.