The Lion's Daughter (28 page)

“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
16

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 exactly as I told you.”

“You
saw my suitor with your own eyes, heard 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
1
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 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.”