The Lion's Daughter (11 page)

“Let
go of me,” she said in a tiny voice she didn't recognize.

“Oh.”
He blinked, and the shimmering warmth vanished from his eyes. “I'm
sorry.” He released her. “I forgot
...
that is
...
you have lovely feet.” His
voice, too, sounded strange.

Her
heart battered confusedly within her chest, like a moth beating at a
window. “My feet are dirty,” she said tightly.

“I
beg your pardon. I didn't think
—
Well.
I suppose no one bothered much about you, did they?” He stood
up. “If you'd like to wash, I'll step out of the room for a
bit.”

Without
waiting for her answer, he left. After a moment's hesitation. Esme
darted for the pitchers. With furious speed, she stripped to the
skin, then savagely scrubbed herself from top to bottom. There wasn't
enough water to wash her hair, so she untangled it as best she could
with her fingers, then wove it into a single braid to keep it out of
her face.

When
she heard his returning footsteps, she was just pulling on her shirt.
She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. “I am not yet
dressed,” she called softly.

“Just
as well. Our host's nephew or cousin or grandson or whatever has
donated a clean shirt for you to sleep in.” The door curtain
parted slightly, and he tossed the garment inside.

Blushing
hotly, Esme snatched it up and hurriedly threw it over her head. It
fell well past her knees.

“I
—
I'm
decent now,” she said, suddenly feeling foolish. She had no
need of his approval. What did it matter to him if she was clean or
dirty? She was an ugly little savage, his guide and interpreter, that
was all.

OUTSIDE
THE DOOR, Varian hesitated. There was plenty of room elsewhere.
Perhaps he should let her have the chamber to herself. She was far
away from the men. She'd be safe enough. Except that he didn't like
to leave her alone. She was too much alone in the world
...
and too young.

He
should not have teased her. Though young, she was not entirely a
child, and he most certainly wasn't, either. He was no older brother
who might tumble her about in innocent horseplay. Varian St. George
had left innocence behind long ago. All the same, he'd been shocked
to find himself stroking her foot
—
and
a heartbeat away from worse. That small, bewildered voice
...
She must have seen it in his
eyes, or sensed it.

It
didn't matter, he told himself. She didn't, couldn't
know.
He'd pretend nothing had happened.
Nothing had. It had all happened in his mind, which obviously had
snapped. Hardly surprising in the circumstances.

He
flung back the curtain, entered
—
and
nearly stumbled.

Esme
stood before the fire, her stance stiff and defiant and her color
very high. If she'd any inkling what the firelight revealed beneath
the lamentably thin nightshirt, she'd probably turn purple. He ought
to tell her. That was the gentlemanly thing to do. And he'd do it, in
a moment
—
but,
oh, Lord, was there ever anything so sweet? The slight swell of her
taut young breasts, and a breath of a waist rounding ever so subtly
into slim hips and firm, slender thighs and
...

In
short, she was
à
nymph whom Artemis herself had
surely fashioned.

Belatedly,
Varian saw her growing edgy under his ogling. Gad, he hoped he wasn't
so obvious as that. “You're so
...
tiny,” he said.

“Papa
said the women of his family were late to mature.” She lifted
her chin. “I will grow.”

Varian
thought he'd like to be there when she did. Aloud he said,
“Certainly. You've lots of time.” He moved to collect a
pillow and two more blankets from the vast heap on the bunk.

“One
of my friends grew two inches between her first babe and her second,”
she said defensively.

“One
of your
friends?”
He
turned to her, unconsciously clutching the cushion to his belly. “How
young do Albanian girls wed?”

'Twelve,
thirteen, fourteen.” She shrugged. “They're often
betrothed at birth and wed when they're old enough to bear children.
But Jason would not do so with me, because it was not his country's
custom.”

“Good
heavens, I should say not.” Varian tossed pillow and blankets
atop the one she'd laid out by the hearth. “Girls in England
wait until they're eighteen to go on the Marriage Mart
—
at
least among the upper orders. Even then, I much doubt they're
sufficiently adult to become mothers.”

Her
gaze grew thoughtful. “Yes, I expect they're much sheltered,”
she said. To his relief, she moved away from the fire and toward the
bunk, the contemplation of which drew her full mouth down into a
frown.

“You
will be cold on the floor,” she said, her gaze still upon the
bed.

“My
dear girl, last night I slept in a leaking tent in a typhoon.”

“But
you had a body on either side to keep you warm.”

This,
Varian thought, was not the time to remind him. It would be a deal
cozier to share the bed with her, but tonight he hadn't Petro as
chaperon, and tonight, of all times, he
had
experienced disquieting feelings
about a very young, innocent girl. Suppose this should trigger
another lascivious dream and liberties similar to or even greater
than those he'd taken a few nights ago in his sleep? Then, at least,
she had been fully armored in her rough woolen garments. Now there
was as good as nothing between his depraved hands and her innocent
flesh. No, he would
not
think
about that.

“I'll
be sufficiently warm here by the hearth,” he said. “Really,
Esme, I don't want the bed. I want you to consider it as
—
as amends, you see. For my rudely
tumbling you about a while ago,” he hastily improvised.
“And
—
and
because I've been such a pestilential traveling companion, and will
likely continue so.”

She
turned and looked at him, the faintest hint of a smile on her
otherwise grave countenance. “The bed is my revenge,
efendi?”

“Exactly.”

With
a low chuckle, she climbed onto the bed and comfortably established
herself in her customary Buddha-like pose. “In that case, I
shall enjoy it to the fullest. It is very soft,” she added.

Varian
sighed and pulled off his coat. “I expect it is.” He
unwound his neckcloth and dropped it on the floor.

“You
are most untidy,” she said. “Also, your neck will get
cold.”

“Would
you rather I strangled myself? And do you mean to sit there and watch
me disrobe?”

“I
did not know you intended to disrobe
altogether.
You will be very cold,” she
said. “Also, it is immodest to undress without putting out the
candles first.”

“
Also,
it is a tedious business to find
one's buttons in the dark. Can't you just put your head under the
covers? Unless, that is, you wish to admire my manly beauty,”
he added provokingly.

This
did not fluster her as he'd expected. She regarded him

coolly
for a moment, then equally coolly, drew up the blankets and lay down
with her back to him.

“Petro
was right,” she said scornfully. “You have no modesty at
all. Also, you are vain. Not that I am surprised, when I see how the
women become like drunkards when they look at you.” She yawned.
“Still, if you wish to prance about the room naked, that is
your affair. Perhaps the activity will keep you warm.”

“What
an elegant picture you paint,” Varian said, grinning in spite
of himself. “The twelfth Baron Edenmont dancing about in his
birthday suit like a
—
like
a
—”

“A
faun,” she supplied. “Or a satyr. Or perhaps like Eros.
But no, you are too old for that
—”

“Eros
will do nicely. At least you attribute to me some sort of godlike
quality
—”

“He
was
blind”

Varian
gave up and, laughing to himself, put out the candles. When he came,
still smiling, to the last
—
the
one nearest the bed
—
he
paused to look at her. She lay curled on her side, snuggled deep
beneath the blankets. The candlelight drew fiery threads in her hair.
A part of him wanted to stroke her hair. Another part wanted,
absurdly, to tuck her in. He did neither.

“Good
night, madam,” he said.

“
Natën
e
mire, Varian Shenjt
Gjergj,”
she answered.

The
Albanian words fell upon his ears soft as a caress. Varian hesitated
a moment, then resolutely turned, put out the candle, and headed for
his lonely pallet on the floor.

Chapter
6

THOUGH
LUSHNJA WAS SUPPOSEDLY A MERE TEN or so miles south, Varian's party
was unable to reach it by sunset. The nearest bridge across the
Shkumbi was some miles west of Rrogozhina. They crossed minutes
before the ramshackle structure was swept into the river.

Once
that horror was behind them, they faced a pathless wasteland. The
rains having obliterated the road, they had to detour farther east,
close to the low hills. Trapped on the fringes of this marshy coastal
plain, the small group progressed by inches. In the downpour, even
with horses, they advanced no more rapidly than they had done
previously on foot.

At
present, however, Varian barely noticed his physical surroundings.
His mind was fixed on other matters, such as the men who formed his
escort. A less reassuring lot was difficult to imagine.

Esme
had insisted they were good, reliable fighters. Certainly they
appeared fierce enough: tall and sinewy, their mustachioed
countenances dark and leathery under the hoods of filthy cloaks.
Their rough manner and low, terse speech was scarcely calculated to
win an Englishman's trust, however.

In
their midst, Esme seemed smaller and more vulnerable than ever,
terribly in need of protection. That they didn't seem to suspect she
was a female was in no wise comforting, given the practices common in
these parts. Varian thought the men watched her too closely. He had a
strong suspicion what was in their minds, though she clearly didn't.

It
was in his thoughts too much for comfort. Admittedly, she was a
lovely child. He'd recognized that even before he'd discerned the
alluring subtlety of her nymph's body. Her sun-burnished complexion
was smooth and soft, her full, ripe mouth softer yet, begging to be
kissed. But that was the whole trouble. She was a
child,
and Varian St. George had no taste
for children, and therefore no business thinking about her mouth or
any part of her.

Only
he couldn't stop thinking about it. Repeatedly his mind thrust before
him the disquieting moment when he'd caressed her foot and gazed into
the beguiling green depths of her eyes, and felt the first
treacherous stirrings of desire.

Alarming
as it was, Varian assured himself, the attraction was easily
explained. He'd not touched a woman in weeks. This, coupled with a
miserable journey in filthy weather through a hellish terrain, had
disordered his mind. He perceived Esme as a woman because he wanted
one, and she was the only female at hand.

Nonetheless,
a temporary celibacy would not kill him. He was a gentleman and,
while admittedly dissolute, certainly possessed sufficient honor to
keep his hands to himself. Unfortunately, he much doubted the same
could be said of the men escorting them.

When
at last they stopped for the night and the Albanian men began to set
up camp, Varian took her aside.

“I
think it will be best if you continue sharing my tent,” he
said.

Seeing
rebellion smolder in her eyes and the stubborn jut of her chin,
Varian added, “Arguing with me is a waste of breath. You'll
only tell me how illogical and foolish I am. But being so, I'm not
likely to heed a word, am I?”

“If
you are foolish,” she said with exaggerated patience, “how
can you know what is
best!”

patiently.
“Perhaps what I think is idiotic, but my dear girl, it's the
best I can do.”

She
considered this, her meditative expression a comical replica of
Percival's when puzzled by a geological specimen.