The Lion's Daughter (34 page)

He
heard a scream and an ominous splash. An answering scream rose within
him, and he drove himself harder, though his muscles were shrieking
now, his lungs burning.

A
lifetime passed or minutes or seconds, then he was close enough to
hear her wild thrashing. He looked up in time to see her go under. He
kept on moving. He heard death rushing toward her, faster than he,
like a roaring wind.

Leave
her. Please. Leave her to me. Please. Anything.

“Varian!”
One choking cry, so weak amid the great relentless blackness bearing
down upon them both.

No.
Wait. I'm coming. Wait for me.

Beyond,
the sun plummeted to the horizon, red as hell-fire. The masterless
boat drifted swiftly toward it. Nearer, though still beyond his
reach, Varian saw her head sucked down again into the hungry blue maw
of the sea. He cried out her name, then plunged into the roaring
darkness.

Chapter
19

VARIAN
WAS AWARE OF THE SOUND BEFORE HE came fully awake: tenor voices
mourning, and with them, the low wail of a pipe.

He
opened his eyes to find himself slumped on a stool beside a bed. A
few candles flickered fitfully in the darkness, showing him the
slight form buried under the bedclothes. A tangled mass of dark red
hair framed her pale, still face. Esme stirred slightly, as though
she felt his gaze even while she slept. Only sleeping, he assured
himself as he lightly stroked her hair. He'd not lost her. The men of
Saranda had come to their rescue.

Varian
had not made it easy for them. He'd fought like a madman, though even
in the madness he'd known he couldn't get her to shore on his own.
The heavy garments that had dragged her down had slowed his progress.
As he grew weaker, they'd threatened to pull him down with her.

The
rest was hazy. Voices, movement. All Varian's being had been riveted
upon the girl in his arms, whom he refused to relinquish. He must
have collapsed. He didn't recall reaching the house, wherever it was.

Now
he realized the voices were coming from outside, and

their
wailing was merely the usual Albanian melody in minor key, like the
one he'd heard Esme singing.

He
rose stiffly. His numb muscles awoke with a protest, prickling
painfully in his arms and legs as he moved to the open window.
Beneath lay a wide terrace where a group of men sang. Below them and
beyond, the bay glistened innocently in the moonlight, as though it
had not sought to take Esme from him only a few hours before.

From
the bed came a moan, then a flurried rustling of bedclothes and a
panicked stream of Albanian. Varian hurried back to the bed and
gently drew her into his arms. “It's all right,” he said.
“You're safe.”

He
felt a shudder run through her thin frame, then another. Then her
chest was heaving, wracked with low, terrible sobs she struggled to
contain. But they broke from her at last, and when Varian heard her
cry her father's name, his heart broke with hers.

He
who was so clever with words sought them now, only to find he'd
nothing of value. “I'm sorry, sweetheart.” He forced the
worthless syllables past the constriction in his throat and knew it
was futile to try for better. He pulled her close, stroked her hair,
tried to give comfort, and found again he'd none to give. All her
pent-up grief ripped free in ragged cries, half Albanian, half
English. Hot tears spilled down her face while the sobs shook her
small body, and he was helpless.

Women's
tears had never frightened him as they did other men, but this was
different. This was his strong, brave Esme weeping. She was helpless
and broken, and he couldn't bear it. His heart ached for her,
grieving for her grief and despairing at his own uselessness.

“I'm
sorry,” he said, over and over. One futile phrase in answer to
her misery.

I
want my father.

I'm
sorry.

So
it went, endlessly, yet in fact only a short while. In spite of his
ineptness
—
or
perhaps because of it
—
Esme
soon recovered. She did so sharply, pushing away from him, then
angrily rubbing her nose.

Varian
reached for his handkerchief and realized he hadn't one. They'd taken
his sopping garments away. He wore only a robe. He searched the room
and found a towel, which he wordlessly gave her. She wiped her face.

“I
never cry,” she said shakily. “I hate it.”

“I
know.”

She
muttered to herself a moment, then announced clearly, “You
should not have come after me.”

“I
had no choice.”

Esme
shot him a look of unalloyed contempt.

In
that instant, pure, blessed relief washed through him. She was well
and truly angry, therefore herself once more. Her own unreasonable,
temperamental self.

She
was mortified because she'd broken down. Of course she'd take it out
on him. Let her. Her rage Varian could deal with, more or less. Her
tears paralyzed him.

“Esme,”
he began, “you didn't think I'd let you
—”

“I
didn't think even
you
could
be so greedy. I could not believe my eyes when I saw you leap into
the water. You could have drowned! For a thousand pounds! What good
would money do you at the bottom of the sea?”

“I
beg your pardon?” Varian said. “I don't believe I heard
aright. Something about a thousand pounds?”

“Something?
Do not play games with me. I know that is why you chased me
—
you,
the laziest idler on three continents. But for money, you will stir
yourself.”

“Indeed
I will,” he replied, “in moderation. To attempt to swim
the Ionian is hardly moderate.” He gave her a puzzled glance.
“Are you telling me you had a thousand pounds on your person? I
thought it was the costume that made you so heavy.”

“Do
not pretend to be stupid. I know what Ali offered and what you agreed
to do. I hope he gave you the money already. If he did not, you shall
never see it, I promise you.”

Varian
rubbed his head. “Ali, apparently, offered me a thousand pounds
to do something. Please forgive me, but my mind is muddled at
present. Perhaps I was struck by an oar. I cannot for the life of me
recollect what I agreed to do.”

Her
stormy green eyes clouded with confusion. She moved uneasily in the
bed. It was a large bed with a feather mattress, decidedly
European
—
”Frankish,”
the Albanians would say. All westerners were Franks to them, Varian
thought absently while he waited. And he would wait until Doomsday if
he must. It appeared Esme had not run away for love of Ismal, as
she'd scrawled in her cruel note, but because of this thousand-pounds
matter concerning himself. Varian's offense, whatever it was, must be
a grievous one if she could fly into a tantrum after what she'd just
endured. Any other young woman would have wanted weeks to recover.

“No
one struck you,” came her sullen voice at last. “You are
ashamed. That's why you pretend you don't remember.”

“I
don't feel the least ashamed,” Varian said lightly. “If
you think the recollection will make me so, I pray you will not
mention it. We shall speak of something else.”

Once
more he took his seat upon the bed. Esme retreated, flushing hotly.
“No! You shall not use your arts on me. I shall not marry you.
Never! I would throw myself from a mountain first.”

“Marry
me?” He drew back in alarm. “I should say not. Whatever
put such a ghastly idea into your head?”

“Ghastly?”
Her voice rose shrilly. “You did not tell Ali it was ghastly.”

“I
should hope I am not so tactless as to say so to a man possessing
several hundred wives. I might hurt his feelings.”

“Aye,
but
mine
are
of no account. I knew it,” she grumbled. “I knew he'd not
paid you yet. You'd not say such a thing to me if he had. No, you
would pretend it was the dearest wish of your heart.”

“Good
heavens, you do think I come cheap, don't you? That wounds me, Esme,
truly it does. You think I agreed to wed you for a mere thousand
pounds? My dear girl, I should not agree to shackle myself to
Aphrodite herself for anything less than twenty thousand. In gold,”
he said. “And I should test every coin with my teeth.”

“I
heard
Ali
say it. I heard him tell Ismal.”

“Then
you heard him lying. A whore I may be, but a precious expensive one,
I promise you.” Varian looked toward the window and frowned. “A
thousand pounds. The very idea. I have never been so insulted in all
my life.”

Esme
didn't respond. Obviously, she was turning the matter over in her
mind. Just as well. Varian had his own riddle to solve, and it had to
do with tomorrow. And the next day. And

the
day after. His mind recoiled automatically, as it always did from
that gloomy prospect, the future.

He
gave his attention to the window instead, to the sounds coming from
below. He'd heard laughter a short while ago, when she was berating
him. The laughter had stopped, and the singing had recommenced. A
stringed instrument of some sort now accompanied the pipe.

He
heard Esme sigh.

“What
are they singing?” he asked.

“Nothing.
A love song.”

“I
understand
hajde,”
he
said. “But none of the rest. What is the chorus? Shpee-mee
—”

“
Shpirti
im.
My spirit, soul. 'Come, my
...
my heart.'
“
She made a small, weary gesture.
“The man
—
he
—
oh,
he calls to the girl in love.”

“Ah,
well, love. Men will say anything, won't they?”

A
taut pause.

“Varian.”

He
didn't look around. He felt the mattress move as she crept toward
him. She stopped abruptly part way.

“Varian,
will you swear you did not agree to wed me
—
for
any price?”

“Don't
be silly. A gentleman swears on his honor. I haven't any.”

“Then
why did you risk your life for me? If the men had not come, we would
both have died. Why did you do it?”

“I
don't know. I wasn't thinking at the time. I assume I was seized by a
fit of insanity. They seem to occur frequently in your vicinity.”

She
crept closer. Varian felt her light touch on his shoulder. He turned
his head slowly. Esme was on her knees beside him. The skirt of her
thin night rail had hiked up past her knees. Varian hastily looked up
and locked with her intent green gaze.

“Tell
me something,” she said. “Anything. Lie to me, please.”

“I'd
better not,” he answered softly. “You're so overset at
present, you're likely to believe anything.”

“Yes.
I will.”

“You'll
even believe I love you.”

Her
hand tightened on his shoulder. Varian quickly pulled it away,
wanting to break free and flee from the terrible words he'd uttered.
From her, before he destroyed her. He didn't move, didn't release her
hand.

Her
fingers slid between his, and she brought their twined hands to her
bared knee. The room grew fearfully hot, stifling.

“I'd
better leave,” he said thickly.

Her
lower lip trembled. “You always say that. You always go”

“For
your own good.”

“Nay.
You do not want me.” She extracted her hand from his. “I
am so ashamed.”

“You're
tired and overwrought. You've had a terrible experience.”

“
This
is terrible.” Her voice was
low and unsteady. “Always I find death before me. I stare at
him fearlessly, because I am a warrior. If I set my mind to it, I
could kill you. But I cannot win this struggle. I cannot make you
touch me as a man touches a woman.”

“Don't
be so cruelly absurd,” he said tightly. “I've touched you
that way far too many times.”

Too
many times
...
and
never enough.

Varian's
gaze trailed from her trembling mouth to the smooth white skin above
the neckline of her night rail, down to the small curve of her
breasts to her tiny waist
...
down to his own hand, still
resting upon her knee and itching to stroke, caress.

He
drew in a painful breath. “I want you. I
need
you. I'm sick with it. Oh, God,
don't listen to me. Don't
...
don't do this, Esme.” The
flesh beneath his hand was so smooth, so firm. Even as he warned her,
his fingers moved longingly up her thigh.