The Lion's Daughter (16 page)

“
Back,
master? You will not leave me with
her again?” Petro pressed his hands together in supplication.
“I beg you, lord, not again. I am cut in a thousand places from
her tongue.”

“If
you didn't irritate her, that wouldn't happen,” Varian said.
“Go join the men for a while. But don't get drunk, or I'll cut
you in another thousand places with my horsewhip.”

The
dragoman left, muttering resentfully in what sounded like Turkish.

Varian
set down the
raki,
hesitated
a moment, then sat down opposite her, Indian style, as she did. His
trousers, he thought wryly, would never recover.

“I've
come to apologize,” he said. “I've not been a gentleman.”

Esme
shuffled the cards, tapped them into perfect alignment, then set them
down before her. “That is true.” She placed her hands on
her knees. “Still, the apology is welcome.”

“
Besa?”

She
glanced up, her enormous green eyes lit with surprise.

“
Besa,”
he repeated. “Truce, is it
not?”

“Yes,”
she said. “No
...
no, I must say my part as well,
or I do not truly pledge truce.” Her gaze dropped to the rug.
“You said before that I made it impossible for you to be a
gentleman.”

“That
was
—”

“No,
let me finish.” Her hands tightened on her knees. “You
find it so difficult because I am not a lady. I know. Jason told me
so often. I can never be a lady by your people's standards. I am not
one by my own people's, either. Other Albanian girls are not like me.
They have better manners, much better. I am not always pleased with
myself. I do and say many things I later wish I had not. Only later,
too late, when it's done. I have great will, yet I
cannot
will my temper. Never. Also, many
times, I cannot will my patience
...
and sometimes, other feelings. My
grandmother said I have a demon inside me. I do not believe in
demons, yet that is truly how it feels.”

She
clenched her fist and pressed it to her heart. “Here. A

fiery
demon. That is how I am. It cannot be helped,” she concluded
sadly as she took her hand away.

It
was a confidence, and the confession had not been easy for her. From
the start, when she'd refused to show any emotion regarding her
father's murder, Varian had understood that the Red Lion's daughter
locked her feelings securely inside her. Now, when he'd offered only
the smallest of apologies, she'd opened up a corner of her heart to
him. His own twisted guiltily.

Varian
wished he could shelter this girl in his arms while he assured her
she was not to blame, not at all. He realized he was leaning toward
her.

“I
see.” He unfolded his legs and leaned back on one elbow, to
widen the distance between them. “That explains everything.”

She
shot him a wary glance. “Does it?”

“Oh,
yes. Very simple.
A
cliché,
actually, though
I'm mortified to admit it. I am a stupid, lazy moth, fluttering about
aimlessly. You are a little firebrand, constantly bursting into
flame. The stupid moth catches sight of the bright, lovely flame, and
without a thought for consequences
—
though
he's old enough to know better
—
rushes
right at it. Then he gets his wings singed and, like the mindless
imbecile he is, berates the flame.”

Esme
mulled this over, taking up the cards, shuffling them, putting them
down again. Watching her deft hands, Varian recalled her tentative
touch upon his sleeve. No, he mustn't think of that, or his mind
would turn again to the rest. He wanted peace, the truce he'd sought,
because he wanted to remain with her this night, honorably.

“I'm
not a good man,” he said. “My character is odiously weak.
If there's a wrong done, it's more than likely I've done it quite on
my own. I'm selfish and thoughtless. I've always been. If not, I
should never have brought Percival here.”

“Why
did you bring him,
efendi?”

Varian
stared at the cards. He still hadn't told her. He'd neatly avoided
it, unwilling to face her withering ridicule. For a chess piece, a
toy? He could hear her say it, hear the contempt in her low voice.

“We
came to get a chess piece,” he said. Instantly heat

flooded
his face. He
—
Edenmont
—
was
blushing. Well, he ought to. As he forced himself to meet her gaze,
he saw her eyes widen. Then, of all things, a smile.

“I
am sorry,” she said. “I am very sorry, Varian
Shenjt
Gjergj,
that your mother dropped you
upon your head so
many
times.”

“It
wasn't
entirely
my
doing,” he said. “Your cousin has a fiendish knack for
making the most outrageous matters seem perfectly reasonable.”

“He
is twelve years old.” She shuffled the cards.

“He
is not. He's fifty if he's a day.”

She
placed the cards before him. “Cut.”

“Do
you mean to tell my fortune?”

“No.
I mean to beat you at
vingt-et-un,
my
lord, while you tell me of this chess piece.”

THOUGH
ESME BEAT his lordship only once, they passed the night peaceably
enough, and it was very late when he summoned Petro at last. Despite
the earlier threat of horsewhipping, the dragoman entered none too
steadily.

His
master, however, only uttered a few sharp words before giving up.
“He's no better than I at tolerating hardship,” he
muttered. “Liquor is the only comfort he has at present. Why
shouldn't he get drunk? I wish
I
could.”

Esme
noticed that he made his bed as far from hers as the tent's confines
would permit. That was best, she told herself. If his lordship felt a
man's need, he might well wish to ease it with whatever was at hand,
even herself. This was one of the ways men differed from women, Jason
had said, even those of otherwise good character. It was a demon many
men seemed to possess.

This
man may have compared her to a lovely flame and himself to a helpless
moth. Esme reflected, but that was his need speaking.

“When
lust takes hold of a man,” Jason had warned, “he'll say
anything, do anything, and there are men who can seduce with words
only. Sometimes guile can be as dangerous as force. Properly armed
and prepared, you've a chance of eluding an attacker. Even you, small
as you are, might fight him

off
successfully, as I've taught you. But what will you do, little
warrior, when a man sighs and tells you you're breaking his heart?”

That
was too ludicrous to contemplate.

“I
shall laugh,” she had answered confidently.

“That
may anger him.”

'Then
he will attack, and I shall be prepared.”

Naive.
Abominably so. This man had kissed her, and she hadn't raised a hand
against him. In his man's heat, he'd spoken of desire, and in the pit
of her belly, a woman's heat had throbbed in answer.

It
was best he slept far from her.

Besides,
Esme needed to think about what the baron had revealed. The business
of the black queen baffled her. If her cousin had given Jason the
chess piece, why hadn't her father mentioned it? Jason had shown her
his mother's curt note and the kinder one to Esme from his
sister-in-law. Why should he keep the chess piece a secret? That made
no sense. Percival must be mistaken, and the English lord had made a
grave error of judgment, to travel to Albania on a boy's mere say-so.

Still,
Lord Edenmont did have an understandable motive. He was penniless,
he'd reminded her, and in Italy he could live on a thousand pounds
for many months.

“And
then?” she'd asked.

“Oh,
I would worry about 'then' when it became 'now.'
“

Esme
looked into his future, and worried for him now.

THEY
MIGHT HAVE passed the next day peaceably as well, had Lord Edenmont
not made another trip to the river in the morning. When he returned,
his hair in shiny damp waves, Esme was so furious that for perhaps
the first time in her life she was beyond speech. She simply glared
at him and stalked away. They rode toward Poshnja in rigid silence.

They
reached the town shortly after noon. They planned to stay the
evening, so that his lordship might manage a hot
—
or
at least warm
—
bath
to soothe his fastidious soul, while they replenished their supplies.

Only
a small party greeted them this time, which was odd. Equally
intriguing was the agitation Esme sensed in the
vil
lage.
She quickly dismounted, and collared a boy who was gawking at Lord
Edenmont as though he'd ridden direct from the moon.

“What's
happened?” she asked. “Where are all the men?”

The
boy came out of his daze long enough to explain that Poshnja was
battling bandits. In broad day, just before the English lord's party
arrived, a band of men had swept down and relieved die villagers of
some livestock and a great deal of grain. They'd even stolen some
loaves of bread which had been left upon a ledge to cool.

Esme
released the boy and glanced about her. Agimi and some others of die
escort were talking excitedly with an old man. His lordship, though,
didn't seem to notice. He was too busy glaring at Petro, whose
interpretive skills were evidently failing to please. Esme perceived
how the muscles of his chiseled aristocratic countenance tightened
and hardened with vexation as he turned his head, looking for her.

When
he located her at last, he looked at her for a long moment, then
smiled and raised his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. Her
mouth wanted to return the smile. Her pride wouldn't let it. Chin
aloft, Esme went to him, to translate their host's welcoming speech
and Lord Edenmont's gracious response.

All
this time, their Albanian guards were conducting business of their
own. While Hasan, the village elder, led his lordship indoors for the
obligatory pampering and cosseting, half of Lord Edenmont's men were
leaping back upon their mounts.

Well,
one could hardly expect them to sit idly about, drinking
kafe
and smoking their pipes, while
thieves took the food from their countrymen's mouths. So Esme
explained when she gave Lord Edenmont die news
...
half an hour later, when she felt
certain the men were well away.

“You
saw diem go and didn't tell me?” he demanded in a harsh
whisper. “I know you're not speaking to me, but you might have
informed me of that, at least.”

“I
could hardly tell you in the midst of Hasan's greetings,” Esme
answered as their hostess set down a tray before him. “Besides,
you could not have stopped them.”

“If
they were doing what they believed was their duty, I

wouldn't
wish to stop them,” he said. “I only wish I might be
informed
—
that
someone might make at least a
pretense
of consulting me.”

“What
sort of sense would they expect from a man who bathes in a freezing
river, not once but twice in six hours?”

“I
saw Petro pick a louse from his head. What would you have done?”

“I
should have thrown
Petro
into
the river.”

He
glared at her, then laughed. When Hasan looked inquiringly at her,
Esme explained that the English lord laughed with pleasure to see so
many kind faces and so much good food.

THE
MEN RETURNED several hours later, while Varian was shaving
—
with
blessedly hot water. It was Petro, not Esme, who brought the news.
Esme had not yet forgiven him for this morning's ice bath. Well, she
didn't understand, thank heaven. Otherwise, she'd probably drown him
herself.

Varian
squinted into his small shaving glass. What he wouldn't give for a
proper mirror, that he might discern more than a square inch of skin
at a time. He tried to recall whether there had been any looking
glasses in the houses he'd visited. Perhaps these were rare in the
villages. He wondered if Esme had ever seen her own countenance, or
merely murky reflections in a pond or a bucket.

“Did
they capture the thieves?” he asked.

“One
they killed,” Petro answered. “Two others were shot, but
escaped. They have brought back the animals and the grain. But the
bread is gone, and Agimi's arm must be cut off.”