The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  “The boy? I do not…”

  A short pause, then Ali laughed. “At last you perceive why your generous offer was so coldly refused. The poor man had no choice, with the boy there. What would happen, do you think, if that intelligent lad told his elders that Lord Ee-dee-mund sold another lord’s niece to a heathen barbarian?”

  “They’d probably hang him,” Ismal answered softly. “Yet you paid him to do what he must do in any case?”

  “Ah, there I had no choice.” Ali’s voice was rueful. “The man’s abominably cunning. He said he couldn’t sell her outright. On the other hand, he pointed out, he couldn’t help it if she ran away. He said she’s tried that before. I saw I’d better make certain she didn’t run away. So I offered him five hundred English pounds to wed her. We settled at a thousand. It’ll make the boy happy, and the lord’s in desperate need of money. For a thousand pounds, I think he’d even marry you.” Ali laughed again.

  Esme thrust her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. Ismal was speaking again, but it was mere sound, drowned in the sea of humiliated rage that engulfed her.

  Don’t make me out to be noble.

  Hadn’t she known from the start Varian’s heart was black and selfish? Hadn’t he told her—as Petro did—that he’d lived by his wits for years, and on his charm and beauty? He’d come for a chess piece worth a thousand pounds. Though he’d not got the chess piece, his wits, charm, and beauty had got him the thousand pounds directly.

  He’d also obtained a fine revenge for all the trouble Esme had given him. He’d never wanted her; he’d only played a game. When she’d offered herself, he’d declined—because all he wanted was to torment her, to get even by making her fall in love with him. He’d succeeded admirably. Ali had seen instantly how besotted she was.

  Varian had used them all, used her infatuation, her cousin’s loneliness, Ali’s fears and greed. Varian had turned their weaknesses to his own profit. This man she’d thought stupid and childish had extorted a thousand pounds from Ali Pasha—the greatest miser in the Ottoman Empire—and turned the Red Lion’s daughter into a sniveling, mindless wanton who begged to be dishonored.

  Drawing a deep breath, Esme forced herself to stand up and return the way she’d come. It was best, she told herself, always best to know the truth. No one wanted her. She was a joke to everyone. Very well. Let them have their joke and all their lies and machinations. Let them play their men’s games. It was nothing to her. She was a woman. Now, at last, she understood exactly what that meant. Jason should have told her, long ago. But that was so like him. Always, he left out the most important part.

  Shortly after sunrise, Fejzi arrived to escort Varian to the Vizier. He found Lord Edenmont broad awake, washed though not yet shaven, and touchy.

  Varian’s troubled sleep had been punctuated by a series of dreams, each of which had begun lewdly and ended in the most grisly fashion. In the last, a naked Esme had held in one hand a bloodstained knife and in the other a slimy piece of throbbing flesh. “You have no heart,” she’d said, smiling. “No heart, no heart, no heart.” He’d awakened to find his own still safe in his bosom, hammering wildly. It set up another racket now at the unexpected and thoroughly unwelcome summons.

  Varian raised no objection, however. The last thing he wanted at present was to antagonize Ali. After last night’s confrontation, it was a miracle Lord Edenmont’s head remained secured to his neck. Five hundred pounds he’d rejected—for the second time—to leave Esme behind. His reasons had been closely examined. So closely that Varian had felt he’d been turned inside out, scrubbed clean of every secret, and wrung thoroughly dry.

  Oh, he’d won in the end—about the time he’d begun to suspect Ali had intended that all along, and the bribe was merely part of some convoluted Oriental game, or a test of some sort. Then Varian could have kicked himself for refusing the money. What would Ali have done had he accepted? What would the old fiend do with a girl he knew wanted to cut his cousin’s throat? Or did the Vizier want her to kill Ismal?

  No. Varian would not attempt to comprehend the labyrinthine mind of Ali Pasha. That way madness lay.

  The Lion of Janina was standing when Lord Edenmont entered—a promising sign of royal condescension. Much to his lordship’s astonishment, the Lion hastened forward to embrace him.

  Via Fejzi, Lord Edenmont learned he was as dear to his highness as a son, and were circumstances otherwise, the Vizier would give half his realm to keep this wise and brave lord by him always. Alas, one could not keep him even another day. Ali could not, either, accompany his lordship to Corfu, for duty called him elsewhere. There appeared to be some difficulties in the southern realm; a little war may be necessary to bring peace. Still, there was no need for alarm. Lord Edenmont would depart this morning and reach Corfu speedily. He would not wish to endanger the young ones by remaining.

  Ali spoke casually, as though he mentioned negligible matters. Hearing Fejzi stammer through the translation, however, Varian experienced a chill, as though an icy finger traced its way down his spine.

  “I told his highness last night I had no intention of lingering. What’s the meaning of this ominous hint?” he asked Fejzi.

  “His highness is concerned the Red Lion’s daughter will continue to raise difficulties that might slow your progress. At another time, her waywardness would be amusing. At present, it could prove perilous. Ismal is deeply disappointed. It is possible his friends will take advantage of the Vizier’s preoccupation with internal troubles. Ismal one may easily lock in a dungeon. His friends, regrettably, are everywhere. It could take months to find them all. You see, my lord? His highness cannot properly attend to his realms until you are safe among the British.”

  “You may assure him Miss Brentmor will not raise difficulties of any sort,” Varian said tightly. “I’m aware she appeared agitated when he last saw her. She has since recovered her composure. She has promised to go peaceably with us, and I’ve no doubt whatever that her word is as good as that of any gentleman. What the devil is that racket?”

  The next room had erupted into cries and shouts, crashes and thumps. The words were hardly out of Varian’s mouth when Percival hurtled through the door and two burly guards after him. One managed to get hold of the boy’s arm, but let go abruptly at Ali’s sharp command.

  Percival scowled at the guard, straightened his coat, and marched up to Varian. “I apologize for the disturbance,” he said somewhat breathlessly, “but it couldn’t be helped. Something most vexatious has happened.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his breast pocket and, his hand shaking, gave it to Varian.

  Varian gave the note a swift glance, though he didn’t need to. Percival’s white, stiffly composed countenance told him all he needed.

  His own features rigid, Lord Edenmont turned to Fejzi. “Would you be kind enough to express to his highness my admiration for his perspicacity?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “It would appear there will be a delay, after all,” Varian said, his voice deadly calm. “The young lady has bolted. Please convey my apologies for the imposition, but I must ask his assistance. I am obliged to locate her…and wring her deceitful neck.”

  Risto slipped noiselessly into the luxurious chamber and hurried to the divan, where Ismal lay sulking.

  “The girl’s fled Tepelena,” Risto said without preamble. With his master, he rarely wasted words.

  Ismal slowly drew himself upright, his blue eyes jewel-bright with interest. “Has she, indeed? You’re certain?”

  “Aye. She took off, in a rage with the English lord about who knows what. They’ve been looking for her since early morn, very quietly. You wouldn’t know anything was amiss—unless you saw the parade of poor devils marched in and out of Ali’s apartments. They’ve only just finished with me. You were next on the list, but luck’s with you this time. They’ve found the guard she knocked unconscious. They found him gagged, bound with his own belt, and stuffed into the chest she climbed on
to get out the window.”

  “She overpowered a guard?” Ismal mouth curved into a reluctant smile. “There’s not one under six feet, and all are well over twice her weight. Still, if she was in a great temper…she’s very quick, stronger than she looks, and clever besides

  “It hardly matters how she did it. She’s gone, beyond a doubt.”

  “And no one knows why?”

  “Fejzi said she left a note for the boy. She wrote that every man but you had deceived her.”

  The blue brightness intensified. “Did she, indeed? I wonder, then, why Ali didn’t summon me instantly, to accuse me of enticing the girl away.”

  “I don’t know. There was more to the note, but all else Fejzi would tell me was that she’d warned the boy not to let himself be used as she had been. The English lord wouldn’t let anyone else read it. I’m sure the rest was all abuse of him. He seemed calm and insolent as usual, but he wasn’t so within. One felt it.”

  “Doubtless he was contemplating murder. I wish you’d heard how she berated him last night.”

  “I don’t know what he contemplated,” Risto said tightly. “I don’t trust him. He’s not what we thought.”

  “Nothing is.” Ismal turned his gaze to the fire. “So much gone awry,” he said. “So many complications. I don’t know who killed Jason or why. I don’t know what brought the baron here—with that boy, of all boys. I know only that they’ve upset my plans. From the moment the chess piece left my hands, my beautiful schemes became so many tangled threads, and one by one, I see them slip from my grasp. Now I wonder how and when the black queen will appear...to seal my doom, perhaps.”

  “You’ve been brooding. You let your mind turn everything dark,” Risto chided. “The chess piece is at the bottom of the sea or a river, or in Serbia with those incompetents who couldn’t tell a boy from a girl. We’ve searched everywhere for it. Even if the girl or her friends ever did have it, they couldn’t know what to make of it.”

  “I’ve told myself the same, yet my instincts answer otherwise, I should have heeded them and left Tepelena while I had the chance.”

  “You hadn’t a chance. The instant you stir from this room, you’re followed.”

  “She got away—a mere female.”

  “A she-devil’s more like it,” Risto said angrily. “She’s nothing but trouble. Now at least you won’t have to keep pretending you’re dying of love for her. Humiliating, it must have been, to beg for that ugly bitch.”

  “Not at all. It was most entertaining. Unfortunately, it was also very expensive. A thousand pounds last night’s performance cost me. I could have bought rifles, men—the aid of the Sultan himself.” Ismal paused, his blue eyes clouding. “At the very least, I could have got the girl.”

  “You don’t want her,” came the hasty answer. “A scrawny witch with a vicious tongue. I’d as soon bed a cobra.”

  Ismal smiled, ever so faintly, at the fire. “Ah, well, you have no taste for women.”

  “You’re not overly fond of them yourself.”

  “That doesn’t mean I share your appetites. Were I capable of desiring a man, I’d have bought the beautiful English whore. An intriguing specimen, is he not, with his coal-black hair and white skin and silver eyes. Should I have bought him for you, perhaps? From all one hears, there’s little he won’t do, for a price.”

  Risto’s olive countenance darkened. “He wouldn’t give up the little demon—yet he got your money anyhow, in the end.”

  Ismal shrugged. “As soon as I learned they were coming to Tepelena, I realized it would cost me. Even when Lord Edenmont rejected my offer, I knew I’d pay. As I expected, Ali generously offered to ease my troubled conscience last night by relieving me of the thousand pounds. He said he needed it to bribe the Englishman. That I greatly doubt. I lied to him; he lied to me, and I ended by paying, as one always does. Still, you’d think he’d at least let me have the girl.”

  “Again, the girl,” Risto said impatiently. “She’s gone and good riddance. Why do you go on and on about that red-haired scarecrow?”

  “On and on?” Ismal turned to his servant and arched one well-shaped eyebrow. “So much hostility, Risto? Very strange. One would think you were jealous.”

  Pain flashed briefly in the servant’s dark eyes. “You please to mock me,” he said. “You’ve always done so—since you were a babe.”

  “Would you rather I lied to you, as I do to everyone else?” Ismal asked softly. “Shall I wear my pretty mask for you, too?”

  “Nay, I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Then stop acting like a jealous wife. You never did so before.”

  “You never behaved so strangely before.” Risto hesitated a moment, then went on, in aggrieved tones. “Last night you called out her name in your sleep.”

  Ismal calmly studied his servant’s face for a long, tense while. “I see. And this morning, she vanished. I hope you didn’t make her vanish, Risto.”

  “Y’Allah, I should have known. You have been playing with me.” Risto closed his eyes. “I did not kill her, I swear it.”

  “What, then?”

  “You know,” the servant said miserably. “Always you know.”

  “I know I woke before the sun rose and found you gone from the room. I know a few moments ago when you brought me news of Esme’s departure, your black eyes shone with delight.”

  Risto winced.

  “Her disappearance endangers me, Risto, yet you’re pleased. Most strange in a devoted servant…and friend.”

  Risto fell to his knees before the divan. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “You can’t stir a step toward the south while they’re headed that way. If the weather turns bad again, they could be traveling for weeks. You must leave for Prevesa within days, but you scarcely think of that. While the girl’s within reach, all your mind fixes on her—and that filthy Englishman. You said yourself last night you were trapped by your own scheme. Had you but waited another few days, you said, Jason would have disposed of himself. Now his curst daughter has disposed of herself, and it will be Ali who’s distracted chasing after her. This is your chance to get away—”

  “Has she disposed of herself, Risto?”

  “May the Almighty strike me dead this instant if I lie to you,” the servant said. Tears trickled down his hard, dark face. “I did not touch her. I saw her go, that is all.”

  “And told no one. And did not try to stop her.”

  “I followed her a ways. That is all. I did nothing.”

  Ismal leaned toward his servant, his blue eyes innocent as a babe’s, kind as an angel’s. “Which way did she go?” he whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For once, luck was with Esme. Saranda’s tiny population had swelled to thrice its size for the festivities, and she’d managed to arrive a day before Donika’s wedding. She had spotted Donika’s brother Branko shortly after her arrival but waited until nightfall to reveal herself. By then, most of the men were in the early states of intoxication and the women in a frenzy of preparation. They wouldn’t have noticed an elephant stampede, let alone the bedraggled boy Esme appeared to be.

  Branko wasn’t pleased to hear her story. Still, though he said she was a thousand times a fool and a hothead, he wasn’t entirely without sympathy. Besides, he owed her. She’d saved his life two years ago and taken a bullet in her leg in the process.

  All she wanted, she told him, was a boat to take her north, beyond Ali’s territories, to Shkodra. There, Ali had no power, and she might stay safely with the old man who’d years before taught her healing.

  “You needn’t tell anyone else I’m here,” she assured him. “Only help me find a hiding place for now. I won’t stir until you tell me so.”

  Branko reflected. “I don’t know the town,” he said at last, in his slow, considering way. “The only safe place I know is with our family. Hush,” he chided when she began to protest about endangering them. “You say no one will think to come here looking for you. Maybe so. Maybe they won’
t guess you’d hide so close to Corfu. Still, word may come any hour—and the officials will be looking for a small female in boy’s garb.”

  “With green eyes,” she reminded him. “I must hide. There’s no way I can disguise the color of my eyes.”

  “That won’t be necessary if we make you appear a foreigner. A gypsy, maybe. Donika will think of something,” he said. “But first I must get you to the house without arousing notice.”

  He thought again for a long while. Esme tried to think, too, but her brain wouldn’t cooperate. It was as exhausted as her body.

  “Yes, easy enough,” Branko said, eyeing her thoughtfully. “For now, you’ll be a weary boy I found. I’ll carry you over my shoulder to the house. Only keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.”

  He could not have devised a more appealing plan. She’d spent three days endlessly thinking, planning ahead, while trying to keep panic and misery from addling her reason. She’d sold the fancy rifle she’d stolen from the guard and bought a horse with the money. Thereafter, she’d made excellent progress, for the weather had held fair. Nonetheless, Esme was tired to the bone. For a few minutes, it would be so good to let someone else do the thinking for her. Branko’s manner might be slow, but his wits were not. Jason had always thought highly of Donika’s elder brother.

  Esme handed over her weapons and travel bags. Branko hoisted these over one broad shoulder and Esme over the other. Her body immediately slumped in relief, and her heavy lids fell closed. The rest was a dull awareness of motion, voices, noise. By the time they reached the house, even that awareness vanished. Esme was lost in black, blissful oblivion.

  From the top of the rocky hill above the straggling wood, Varian watched the two riders approach the crossroads. They didn’t pause as they reached it, but smoothly took the right branch.

  “I can’t believe it.” He turned to Fejzi, who stood behind him.

  “I do not understand, the secretary said, but I believe it. Ismal knows what he’s about. Such a wise young man. And so kind of him to spare us the trouble of tracking her.” He signaled to the men waiting below, who quickly gathered lip their weapons and mounted.