“There’d be no need to explain,” Varian ground out, “if you hadn’t brought up the curst topic in the first place, you sarcastic little know-it-all. You wanted to make a fool of me in front of your cousin, didn’t you? You wanted—”
It struck him then what was wrong. She wasn’t in a temper at all, only pretending to be. That’s why she hadn’t bitten him. In a rage, Esme was incapable of thinking, only acting, instinctively.
“You want me to banish you to the harem,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “You have been deliberately goading me.”
The color drained from her face, and she backed away.
“What vexes me most,” he went on, “is that you know precisely how to do it. Until our paths crossed, no one had ever caused me to lose my temper. There’s scarcely a human being in England, France, or Italy who’s heard me raise my voice. I’ve never deluded myself I was a good man. I had thought, however, I was a civilized one. By God but you bring out the worst in me.” His voice rose. “What in blazes are you? What demon spawned you?”
There was an agitated knocking at the door. Varian strode across the room and wrenched it open. It crashed against the wall, and Fejzi winced.
“A thousand pardons, oh bravest of princes,” he said shakily. “I would not for worlds disturb you, but I am the slave of my master and must do his bidding.”
Christ, he must have run to Ali and back. “What does your master want?” Varian inquired tightly.
“I am to assure you no harm will come to the Red Lion’s daughter. She is as dear to his highness as if she were his own, for she is Jason’s flesh and blood, who was like a brother to him. All this last week, the Vizier’s wives have with their own hands sewn garments for the girl. If she does not come, they will weep grievously, and the other women with them. This the master cannot abide, for the tears of females are so many daggers in his affectionate heart. He asks you to indulge the women, that there may be peace in the harem.”
Indulge the women, indeed. Manipulative devil. Still, it was the custom of the place, Varian told himself. More important, it was where Esme wanted to be.
He exhaled a sigh. “The Vizier is a genius, truly, if he can keep peace among three hundred women. I can’t do so with only one. “He shot Esme a murderous glance, then shrugged. “Take her if you must. But don’t blame me if the harem breaks out in revolution.”
Fejzi dared a feeble smile. “Ah, well, she is the Red Lion’s daughter.” He turned to Esme. “Come, little warrior. You will not make war in the harem, will you?”
She uttered an impatient “tsk” and moved to the door. “I’ll wish to see her again later,” Varian said, forcing his gaze back to Fejzi.
“I shall convey your request to his highness.”
“It isn’t a request.”
Fejzi’s smile faded. “As you wish, my lord.”
***
Ali leaned back on his divan and laughed, his round belly shaking like pudding. “A face and form like Apollo and the temper of Zeus. I heard him shouting and wondered if he’d kill the wench before you returned.”
Fejzi’s smile was thin. “He is abominably insolent, highness.”
“Aye, I watched through my telescope as you approached. I saw it in his bearing. And other things, of course,” Ali added, fixing Fejzi with his piercing blue gaze.
“The Lion of Janina sees everything.”
“When I see for myself. You’d rather I settled for rumors or the clumsy explanation of that thickheaded oaf, Bajo. You all must think I’m in my dotage. All I hear these last days is how beautiful the English lord is. More beautiful than Byron, they say, and no cripple, either. When they don’t speak of the lord, then it’s the boy. Surely Jason’s son, they whisper, a red-haired youth with old, wise eyes. These wonders come to my realms, and I’m not to clap eyes on them but hustle them away to the coast?”
“No, highness. That would be unthinkable,” Fejzi said resignedly.
Ali slowly raised himself to a sitting position and swung his legs to the floor. Dropping his hands on his thick thighs, he eyed Fejzi reproachfully. “Today I watched the Englishman ride into Tepelena in all his bold arrogance, and I laughed with pleasure. A moment ago, I laughed again, to hear of his fury with the little spitfire. How long has it been since I laughed, Fejzi? For how long has my heart lain like a stone coffin within me? Three weeks it’s been since my Red Lion was cut down, an Englishman brave as a Shqiptar. Scarcely has this happened when another Englishman arrives with a red-haired boy, Jason’s kin. It’s a sign from heaven.”
“Or from the other place,” Fejzi muttered.
Ali’s expressive face eased back into a smile. “So it may be. I fear no devil. Am I not everlastingly surrounded by them—and my cousin the prettiest devil of them all?”
He looked away, toward the window, where the sky was darkening. “Tonight I play with two beautiful devils. One fair, the other dark. Well, we’ll see. The game will be interesting.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Vizier was shorter than Fejzi, and fatter. He’d probably been handsome once. His complexion was fair, his forehead broad above the bushy brows, his nose well-shaped. With his great white beard and twinkling blue eyes, one might easily take him for somebody’s jovial grandpapa.
Ali Pasha proved to be lively, talkative, and amazingly good-humored. His was the sort of disarming manner that could lead the most cautious men to betray themselves. Even Varian was tempted to succumb. But a charmer himself, he recognized quicksand when he saw it. He knew that throughout the exchange of elaborate courtesies he was being minutely examined…and all too accurately sized up.
Fejzi interpreted during supper. The man’s linguistic abilities were superior to Petro’s but not nearly as good as Esme’s. She had full command of English vocabulary and used it with both assurance and, too often, unnerving accuracy. Fejzi, however, could scarcely keep up with Ali’s rapid speech, and the Vizier grew increasingly impatient during the lengthy meal.
Finally, declaring they would take their coffee and sweets privately, he waved his courtiers from the room.
Before he, too, departed, Fejzi softly told Varian, “I am to fetch the boy now. His highness did not wish the child to be gawked at and made uncomfortable by the court, but he does desire to see and speak with him. The girl comes in a moment, to interpret for you.” He gave Varian his thin half-smile. “It is not seemly, but she is skilled in languages, and Ismal—” He hesitated, looking to Ali.
The Vizier gave another impatient wave of his hand. Fejzi hastily left the room.
“Ismal speaks English well enough, but his hearing fails him sometimes,” Ali said in slow Greek. “I want no misunderstanding. Fejzi is slow, and when frightened, stammers and stutters. Most annoying.”
“What has he to be frightened of?” Varian asked.
“What do you think?” Ali looked toward the entryway. “What do you think, little warrior?”
Varian’s head swiveled in the same direction, and a heavy fist seemed to drive into his solar plexus.
He saw undulating waves of dark fire streaming over Esme’s slim shoulders and down upon the sea-green silk bodice. His glance slid swiftly down the silken gown to her tiny waist and the supple curves of her hips.
Swallowing a groan, he hastily looked away, and hoped his countenance didn’t betray him to the old man watching with such fiendish interest. All the same, at the moment, it was an effort to recollect that Ali existed. Even while Varian looked politely to the Vizier, all his concentration was fixed on Esme.
He felt her approach, saw a shimmer of green silk as she moved past him, the dress whispering against her slim body…where his mouth wanted to be, and his hands. Heat set his loins aching. Gad, he was pathetic. The girl donned a frock, and he went to pieces.
The rustling of silk seemed to thunder in his ears as she paused a moment, then sank down on his left, onto a cushion.
Ali said something else, and this must have vexed her, for Esme answered
tartly in a rapid stream of Albanian. Varian tensed. She was trying to get herself killed, the sharp-tongued little witch. But Ali only raised his eyebrows in exaggerated shock and laughed.
Varian mustered the courage to look at her. Her face was flushed and her green eyes flashed militant sparks.
“What was that about?” he asked. His voice sounded weak, strained.
“Nothing. A lewd joke, unworthy to be repeated. He’s heard disgusting gossip, that is all.”
Varian wanted to pursue the matter, but a servant entered, bearing a heavily laden tray. A moment later, Percival appeared, his face white as a sheet, though otherwise remarkably composed, considering he had just entered the private chamber of an acknowledged madman, a monster whom even the Sultan feared.
The monster stared at the boy a long, tense while. Then his blue eyes filled with tears. He put out his hand and, after a brief hesitation, Percival took it.
Ali said something, his voice broken.
Esme clicked her tongue. “Jo,” she corrected sharply. “Not his son, you dirty-minded old man,” she muttered in English. “Nip. His nephew.” She threw Varian an accusing look. “I knew this would happen.”
“Still, the resemblance is remarkable,” came a new voice behind Varian. It was low and musical, the English only lightly accented.
All Varian’s senses bristled, as though the silken male voice were a glove striking his face in challenge. He didn’t deign to turn his head. He understood now why he’d been seated with his back to the door. Ali was positioned to catch every expression at each new entrance—the first, unguarded reaction. Varian would not give him the satisfaction again. He waited until the speaker entered his line of vision and, even then, chose to keep his attention upon Ali until the man was seated, his eyes level with Varian’s.
These were deep sapphire eyes, slanting upward slightly above high cheekbones. These were clear, apparently guileless eyes in a smooth young countenance whose fairness any English lady would envy. He wore no turban, and his hair was long, the color of cornsilk. He introduced himself. He didn’t need to. This was the golden prince: Ismal.
Esme had said he was two and twenty. He appeared no more than eighteen, a slim youth with a proud, elegant bearing and all the grace of a dancer. No, a cat.
Ismal had garbed himself in the Turkish style: a gold silk tunic with a sash of blue the precise color of his eyes, over matching silk trousers. He needn’t have bothered. Ismal could have worn a flea-bitten hide, and he’d still be beautiful, cultivated, and noble to the bone. For a moment, he made Varian feel like a peasant, and a barbarian to boot. But only for a moment. Humility, after all, was not an article in great supply among the St. Georges.
Varian returned the young man’s gracious greeting with excruciating courtesy, his face unreadable, his insides churning with hatred and blind, mindless jealousy.
He spent the next quarter hour trying to maintain his composure, trying to think rationally, past the roiling rage in his mind. But thinking was impossible. He was too aware of the richly garbed bodies on either side of him, too aware of their voices, their scents: one light and teasingly feminine; the other darker, exotic, and clearly masculine. Through the rustle of silk, Varian could scarcely make sense of the conversation about him.
He heard Ali’s voice rising in inquiry…Percival’s, answering stiffly at first, then with increasing assurance until he was chatting eagerly…and between them, smoothly interpreting, Esme’s voice, low and soothing as a cool stream on a sultry day.
Then Ismal spoke, and Ali answered at length.
Esme touched Varian’s arm, and the contact jerked him out of the haze so abruptly that he blinked. His companions came into sharp focus. They were all watching him.
“Ali gives Ismal permission to address you directly,” she said. “You are to stand in the place of Percival’s father, the head of my English family, and speak on our behalf. Ali says my cousin is intelligent, but such matters cannot be resolved by children and women.” She met Varian’s puzzled gaze for one tense moment, and he read in her eyes what she wouldn’t add aloud: Remember your promise.
Varian stiffly turned his attention to Ismal, whose expression grew solemn.
“I’ll not tax your patience with endless roundabout speeches, my lord,” said the golden prince. “I admit freely it was my own followers who so villainously sought to steal the Red Lion’s daughter, but I tell you as well that I never commanded it. Never. I have denounced those who ordered the deed, and will happily preside over their lackeys’ executions when they are found.”
Percival made a queer, choked sound, but Ismal appeared not to notice.
“It is also claimed—and this is cruelly unjust—that I ordered the Red Lion’s death. This is a vile lie, which all reasoning men recognize. Why should I cut down the sire of the girl I seek as my bride?” His feline blue gaze flickered to Esme, then back.
Varian felt his fingers curling tightly against his palms. He settled them back upon his knees. “It’s not the customary way of wooing,” he said. “At least not in England.”
Ismal’s mouth curved with amusement. He’d probably broken a thousand hearts with that lazy cat smile.
“You please to be droll, my lord,” said the golden prince. “Even in Albania, it is a most irregular way to go about winning a girl’s heart.”
Wonderful. A wit, in addition to everything else.
“I’d not kill Esme’s father, even were he my worst enemy, for she loved him and must look upon his murderer with vengeful hate.”
When Esme translated this for Ali, he made a jovial comment.
Ismal’s smile widened. “Ali remarks that vengeful wives are uncomfortable creatures to have about. He has no doubt the little warrior would slit my throat if she believed me guilty. Such a state of mind in a bride is poor encouragement to a groom’s ardor.”
Varian looked at Esme. She sat composedly beside him, her hands folded, her eyes demurely downcast while she translated for Ali as though they discussed agriculture, rather than her father’s murder and her own future.
Vengeful hate. Slit his throat.
No.
She wouldn’t.
The hairs on the back of Varian’s neck bristled all the same.
He glanced at Ali, unaware of the silent question he asked until he saw the Vizier’s answer, a barely perceptible motion of his head. Side to side: Yes. Was it possible? Did the genial old fiend suspect what he did—and worse, know the answer?
Varian returned Ismal’s smile with one equally disarming. “You appear far too intelligent to do such a foolish thing,” he said. “Nor can I believe a man the Almighty has so highly favored need take such desperate measures to secure a woman.”
Ismal calmly accepted this rubbish, his eyes as trusting as a babe’s.
“Frankly, though, I can’t understand why you’d want her at all,” Varian went on blandly. “You appear not the least deluded regarding her violent character.”
The green silk gown rustled as Esme shifted her position. She muttered something, too low for Varian to catch, then briskly translated Varian’s remarks for Ali, who chuckled.
“I have no taste for a docile wife,” Ismal said. “The little warrior is fierce and brave, and stirs my blood as no other woman can. So it has been since we were children. She knows. She knows how she has tormented me.” He shot her a soulful look, but Esme kept her attention upon her hands.
So demurely feminine. So sweetly shy under her would-be lover’s passionate gaze…while she was no doubt reviewing in her twisted little mind how she’d kill him.
“Four years ago,” Ismal went on, “when she was fourteen, I begged her father for her hand in marriage. He said she was too young, and I must wait.”
Four years ago—when she was fourteen? Then it all came back, stunningly clear. She had told Varian of her life—a year in Durres, five in Shkodra, two in Berat, and so on and so on. Her life. All eighteen bloody years of it. Why the devil had he never simply a
sked? Why had he tortured himself all this while when a simple question would have relieved him—of that particular guilt at least.
But Varian knew why. He’d been afraid he’d learn she was even younger than he’d guessed.
“Yes, Jason would say that,” Varian agreed composedly. “English girls mature more slowly, I believe, than those in other parts of the world. Esme herself admitted she was slower than most.”
“She is no longer too young, my lord. I have wanted her many years. Now, because she is alone, I feel responsible for her as well. When my noble cousin told me you were coming to Tepelena, I rejoiced, for I would have an opportunity to make amends for all the insults she and her English friends suffered that evil day in Durres. I might try, at least in part, to wipe away my shame and sorrow for all that has happened in my name.”
Ismal’s approach to repentance was briskly businesslike. He would pay two hundred English pounds in bride-price to Esme’s uncle. This was about twenty times the going rate, Esme coolly explained, women being accounted, generally, less valuable than horses. Fines must be paid as well, it turned out: five hundred each to Varian and Percival for the insults to their persons in Durres and five hundred to Ali for the insult to his authority. In addition, Ismal would give Ali and Varian each an Arabian stallion, and Percival a colt of equally good blood.
Lastly, Ismal took up a jewel-encrusted silver box that lay near Ali’s divan.
“These baubles I give to my intended bride, in token of our betrothal.”
He handed Varian the box. The “baubles” consisted of emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and other such gimcracks.
Varian gave them one bored glance and Ismal another.
“Naturally, my bride will receive proper jewels when we are wed,” the golden prince said. There was a faint note of impatience in his tone.
“Naturally.” Proper jewels. Oh, yes. Diamonds, of course, and miles of those gold coin necklaces and hair adornments Byron had described. Hundreds of silken gowns, and slippers embroidered with gold and silver. Esme would never lift a finger again all the rest of her life. Her brown, strong hands would grow as soft and white as the rest of her. She’d be pampered, her every whim a command. She’d dine on rare delicacies, and her slight form would blossom into lush womanhood.
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