The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  If she lived that long.

  Which she wouldn’t if she tried to kill her husband. But she couldn’t be planning that, Varian tried to persuade himself. His suspicion, surely, was nothing more than feverish fancy, sparked by jealous delirium.

  She is not right in the head.

  She was not in her right mind.

  If Percival and Petro had diagnosed accurately, the only sensible thing to do was get clear of her, as far away as possible, as fast as possible. Percival could well do without a homicidal lunatic for a cousin. England could well do without her as a subject. Let Albania deal with her.

  The room was silent, waiting. Ali’s expression was inscrutable. Percival’s countenance was pale, his green eyes wide and anxious. The golden prince watched Esme. Varian wondered what he saw there, but refused to look at her.

  He closed the cover of the jewel box. “A most generous reparation,” he said calmly. “I shall be honored to convey your request to her uncle.”

  Ismal’s guileless expression never faltered. He was good at this, very good, Varian thought, or else very much in earnest. He ruthlessly crushed the doubt. He was in no state to consider consequences, not those, not now.

  “I beg your pardon,” Ismal said. “My English has failed me. I do not comprehend.”

  “I shall be happy to communicate your proposal to the head of Esme’s English family,” Varian clarified, “when I take her to him.”

  Silence.

  Ali looked to Esme, but no translation was forthcoming.

  He directed a question at Ismal, who feigned incomprehension.

  It was left to Varian to translate in his wretched schoolboy Greek and explain he’d no right to dispose of a female to whom he was unrelated. If he did so without Sir Gerald’s written consent, Varian claimed, he might be charged with abduction and slave trading, both grave offenses under English law.

  “But she is not English.” Ismal’s voice was angelically patient. “She is Albanian, his highness’ subject.”

  “She most certainly is not!” Percival burst out.

  All eyes turned to him. He reddened. “I do beg your pardon. I don’t mean to be impolite, but unless I’ve misunderstood dreadfully, it can’t possibly be so.”

  “Percival, if you don’t mind—”

  “But, sir—”

  “DSgjoni!” Ali ordered. “DSgjoni djali. “

  “We are to listen to the boy,” Ismal said, smiling faintly. “It is my royal cousin’s whim.”

  Ali patted the boy on the shoulder. “You. Speak.”

  Percival eyed him nervously. “Thank you, sir.” His frightened glance darted to Ismal, then Esme, and settled at last on Varian, who gave a curt nod.

  Percival drew a steadying breath. “The mother’s side doesn’t count,” he said. “Mustafa explained it to me. It’s as though her bloodline doesn’t exist. Therefore, Cousin Esme is British, not Albanian. There can’t be any doubt about that, in any case. When Uncle Jason got married, he went to all the trouble of going to Italy and finding an Anglican clergyman and getting it done properly. I know, because he kept all his private papers with his banker in Venice. He had copies made for Mama to send to England, and I saw them all: the marriage lines, and papers for Esme’s birth in 1800, and Uncle Jason’s will. He said he didn’t want any legal problems for Esme. He said—”

  “It is nonsense!” Esme cried. “The child makes it all up. My parents were wed in Janina, not Italy.”

  “They had an Albanian ceremony in Janina,” Percival said, “but they were married again with English rites in Italy.”

  “No!”

  Varian looked at her. “So you know a bit about English law, do you?”

  “Aye, and I am a bastard by that law,” she spat out. “Percival tells this falsehood to persuade everyone I am not. But I am not British. I’m no subject of your lunatic king!”

  “It makes no matter, my heart,” Ismal said soothingly. “Your father was disowned by his family, and he became an Albanian. You are Albanian.” He turned to Varian, whose jaw ached with the effort to maintain his mask of composure.

  “You know her kin do not want her,” Ismal went on, his silky voice reproachful now. “Why do you wish to take her to an uncle who will only discard her, as he discarded his own brother? Why make her suffer such shame, when she will only be returned to me in the end? You know it is so, my lord. All Albania knows it is so.”

  “If you knew it,” Varian returned coolly, “why did you bother to seek my permission?”

  “Out of respect,” Esme snapped. “Out of courtesy, which you do not comprehend. You do not understand the honor he does you, and how he humbles himself. Five hundred pounds and a stallion for your trouble he offers, when the law decrees much less. In answer, you insult him. You are a mannerless barbarian!”

  “Nay, my little one,” Ismal chided gently. “My feelings are of no account. Do not distress yourself on my behalf.”

  Damn them both, Varian thought. You’d think they’d rehearsed the whole scene. Did they expect him to believe this star-crossed lovers gibberish? What sort of lackwit did they take him for? Or was it for someone else’s benefit?

  Varian look at Percival, who appeared near tears. A few more minutes of this and the boy, too, would be pleading on behalf of Romeo and Juliet here.

  Varian rose. “Come, Percival. I see no reason to linger for more of this farce. I had thought my opinion and assistance were solicited. I was mistaken.”

  Ali barked something to Ismal, who answered reluctantly.

  Varian began walking toward the doorway. “Come, Percival,” he ordered, still without raising his voice.

  The boy bit his lip but rose obediently and hurried to his side. “I do hope this is not a mistake,” he muttered.

  Varian hoped so, too. Behind him, the two Albanian men were still talking. Would they let him stalk out? If they did, he couldn’t turn back, he knew. He knew as well that Ali had taken his measure and had surely assessed him accurately. The Vizier was near eighty. He’d never have lived so long if he couldn’t recognize a blackguard when he met one.

  “Varian Shenjt Gjergj. “ Ali’s voice. “Lorrrd Ee-dee-mund.”

  Varian paused, his face a mask of boredom, his heart hammering with dread.

  “Please to remain,” his highness continued in Greek. “The others will return to their own chambers. They grow tiresome, these children.” He waved his hand at Ismal. “You, fetch my secretary. I want an interpreter in his right mind.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  One of the guards who had escorted Esme and Percival to Varian’s apartment lingered yet, just inside the door. Esme sat on the sofa, scowling at her cousin. Percival—his rock-filled leather pouch hugged to his chest—was pacing the room. They had awaited Lord Edenmont’s return nearly two hours, arguing most of the time and getting nowhere. Each had proved to be fully as obstinate as the other. Esme’s sole satisfaction was that the endless debate frustrated the hateful guard, who understood not a syllable of English.

  “I do wish you’d not vexed Lord Edenmont,” Percival reproached. “If he’s angry enough to leave you here, I can’t think what I’ll tell Grandmama. She’ll speak to the Prime Minister, I know she will—or to the Regent himself, even though she hates him—and the next thing you know, we’ll be at war with Albania.”

  “That is nonsense. Governments scarcely admit that women exist. They certainly don’t go to war over them.”

  “They most certainly do. What about Helen of Troy?”

  “Y’Allah, my face would not launch so much as a fishing boat, let alone a thousand ships. I think you have read too many fairy tales. You are always inventing troubles and catastrophes. You invent conversations that never occurred except in your own head. You hear my father speak of a small disturbance—in a place where there is always disturbance—and you imagine plots of revolution.”

  “I did not. It was just as I told you.”

  “You saw my suitor with your own eyes, hea
rd him with your own ears. He is even more spoiled and lazy than the arrogant lord who brought you here,” she said scornfully. “Ismal nearly wept when his request was answered so insolently. You think this tender-hearted creature would—”

  “Whited sepulchres,” Percival said.

  “What?”

  “I shall find the passage for you in the family Bible when we get home. If we get home. Oh, I do wish you’d been a boy,” he added crossly. “You are ever so unreasonable. No wonder you make his lordship lose his temper. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He’s always so amiable and remarkably understanding. He hasn’t even scolded me for taking him here and getting myself abducted.”

  “He may beat you if he finds out how you lied and tricked him.”

  Percival stopped short and stared at her, his eyes wide with shock. “You wouldn’t carry tales. You promised.”

  Esme leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Ismal offered five hundred pounds and a stallion, but that was not enough. Perhaps a chess piece worth a thousand pounds will prove a more satisfactory bribe.”

  “It—it’s not yours to bribe him with.”

  “I shall tell him it is. I shall say Jason gave it to me, and I asked you to guard it with your rocks. If you can tell lies, why shouldn’t I?”

  Percival considered. Then his eyes narrowed to two nasty green slits. “If you so much as hint at it,” he warned, “I shall tell Lord Edenmont—”

  “What, that it’s a falsehood? And who will he believe?”

  “I shall tell him you made that horrid scene tonight to make him jealous.”

  The accusation was merely a boy’s obnoxious taunt, yet heat rose in Esme’s face all the same. She had wanted to prove something. She’d wanted to show Varian that another man, as beautiful as himself, desired her. And this other man did not think her a lunatic, or a sarcastic know-it-all, or any of the other hateful names his lordship had called her.

  Ismal had most obligingly accommodated her. He’d sounded so devotedly tender that she had almost believed he did love her. Until her father’s image flashed before her: shot in the back, denied the glory of a hero’s burial, his brave body battered against the cruel rocks of the torrent.

  Percival studied her with frank curiosity. “You’re blushing,” he said. “Good heavens. Is it true? Is that what it was about? Really, girls are very strange. I’d not thought—”

  The door crashed open, narrowly missing the guard, who hastily scrambled aside. As soon as Lord Edenmont entered, the guard slipped out.

  Percival glanced from him to Esme, then yawned. “Good heavens, how late it is,” he said. He rubbed his eyes. “Such an interesting conversation, Cousin Esme. The time flew by, really it did.” He headed for the bedchamber stairs, oblivious to Lord Edenmont’s astonished gaze.

  “Percival.”

  “Sir?” Turning back to him, the boy yawned again.

  “Am I to believe you are not remotely interested in what transpired between Ali and me?”

  “I’m sure you had a most interesting discussion, sir, but I do believe I’ve had sufficient stimulation for one evening.”

  His lordship turned to Esme. “What have you done to him? What insane rubbish have you been filling his head with?”

  Percival bridled. “She’s not filled my head with anything. I should hardly listen to anything a silly girl had to say.”

  “I, silly?” Esme bolted up from the sofa. “It is you who jabber nothing but nonsense. Trojans and white supper curse and—”

  “White what?” Varian asked.

  “Sepulchres,” Percival snapped. “Whited sepulchres. But it’s no use telling her. It’s no use telling her anything. She’s got about as much sense as a—as a fish!”

  “I, at least, do not converse with rocks,” she retorted.

  “I don’t talk to them!”

  “Children,” Lord Edenmont chided. They ignored him.

  “You do! You mutter under your breath, but it is talking all the same. This is sense? To talk to rocks?”

  “I don’t, you horrid, horrid—you girl, you silly girl. I never—oh, what’s the use?” Percival shook his head. “Please, sir, may I go to bed now? I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

  Lord Edenmont waved him off. Percival walked stiffly to the entryway, paused to stick his tongue out at Esme, then marched loudly out.

  Esme stood glaring after him until he disappeared from sight. Then she glared at the ceiling, while he stomped about overhead. At last there was silence.

  And a low chuckle behind her.

  She swung around to glower at Lord Edenmont. His face was blank, but the corner of his wicked mouth twitched.

  Esme didn’t want to look at his mouth. She didn’t want to look at any part of him. She’d thought Fate would at last be kind and spare her from ever having to see him again. But Fate was worse than unkind, and now that dreadful boy believed—

  “White supper curse?” he said.

  “Go to the devil!” she cried. “May a host of jackals rip out your entrails while your heart still beats. May you fall into black water and a thousand leeches feast upon you. May the mother of vermin fasten herself upon you and breed lice in your eyes and nose and—”

  “Ah, an Albanian love song. And you composed it just for me, romantic creature that you are. Very well. I yield.” He opened his arms. “Come. You may cover my adorable face with kisses.”

  Unfortunately, that was just what Esme wanted to do. She was tired and angry and frightened. In a kinder world, she might hide in his arms. In that kinder world, his invitation would not be cruel sarcasm, and she might let his burning kisses shut all else out. She might let herself drown in the hot, dark passion he’d shown her in Poshnja. He was beautiful and strong, and his splendid body would give her shelter…and release.

  Only for a short while, true, but she’d have no other chance. No other man. Only Ismal, whom she hated with all her heart, the man she’d kill—then die for killing. What sort of revenge was that? He’d seem a martyr, the innocent victim of a mad female. No one believed him guilty.

  Except Percival.

  Who claimed Ismal was a traitor, and Risto the go-between who traveled to Italy for weapons for his master. In Berat, Percival had insisted he recognized Risto’s voice…had said the man spoke bad Italian and worse English. The recollection sent Esme’s head whirring like a spinning wheel, and all her consciousness fixed upon the thread she drew from it.

  Risto did speak Italian. And English. Neither well, but enough to get by. How could Percival know that, when in Berat, and all through the journey, Risto had spoken only Albanian? There was only one way Percival could have known: the way he told her. God help her, how could she have been so unforgivably stupid?

  A cold flood of dismay woke Esme from her trance and to the awareness that she was staring blankly at Varian. How long had she stood thus while her mind spun out its revelations?

  He had lowered his arms and was watching her, his head tipped slightly to one side, his gray eyes perplexed…and sad? No, not sad. He hated her. She’d made her cousin hate her as well. They’d held out a life rope to her and she’d thrust it away. They’d leave her here to kill and die because she’d forced them to, because she’d been too obsessed with revenge to listen to anybody.

  The back of her throat began to burn, and her chest hurt, making her breath come in hard, painful gasps. Her lower lip started to tremble uncontrollably. Oh, no. She would not cry. She never wept, and she’d rather be torn to pieces by wild boars than break down before this man. Her eyes were itching. Esme rubbed them hard.

  “Don’t you dare,” Varian whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare cry.”

  Esme bit her lip.

  “Damnation. You are going to be the death of me, Esme.” He swiftly closed the distance between them, gathered her in his arms, and pressed her face to his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped against his chest.

  “Sorry. Christ.
”

  He was stroking her hair. Not very gently, but then, he had every reason to dash her head against the wall, Esme thought miserably.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s too late to be sorry. I’m not afraid. I only wished...I wished to say it to you, aloud.” She swallowed. The burning in her throat had subsided. She would not break down now. She had herself in hand. She raised her head.

  Varian’s black lashes lowered to veil the expression in his eyes. He smiled faintly, without warmth. “And what am I to believe you’re sorry for?” he softly inquired.

  “All. From the beginning. The terrible things I have said. But worse, the terrible things I have done.”

  “Ah, well, you can’t help it, can you? You’re crazy—or Albanian. Come to think of it, they’re much the same. I really don’t understand how your father lived here twenty years and retained his sanity. I lost all claim to mine in less than twenty days.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It is all my fault. I was very confused. I understood nothing…until a moment ago.”

  Varian gave a heavy sigh, and his hands dropped to her shoulders. He stood back, holding her at arm’s length while he studied her face. “Esme repentant. That is nearly as disconcerting a sight as Esme in a frock. The combination is devastating. Perhaps I’d better sit down.”

  He released her, but did not sit down, only backed away to lean against the door. He still looked at her in that studying way. Esme became painfully aware of the silken gown she wore, which had made her feel ridiculous before. Now she felt too female, terribly exposed. He gazed at her as though she were some curious specimen in a cage. She wanted to hide. Her feet carried her toward him instead.

  “No!” he warned.

  Esme stopped short and flushed.

  “You are not to use your arts on me, madam,” he said. “Unburden your conscience if you will, but at a distance. Like Percival, I have had quite enough stimulation for one day, thank you.”