The Lion's Daughter (12 page)

“I
see,” she said after a moment. “It is much like last
night. You have some deranged belief that you must guard and protect
me. You see danger here, where it is not, just as you saw no danger
in
Durrës,
where
it was. Y' Allah, you are so confused. I begin to think your mother
dropped you on your head when you were a babe.”

Varian
kept his face straight. “One ought to be patient with the
mentally unbalanced.”

“For
my patience with
you,
I
should be made a saint,” she retorted. “All while we
travel, it is either complaint or sarcasm. As though your disapproval
will change the weather, or magically rebuild the roads the rain has
washed away.”

He
had been grumpy, Varian realized. Being displeased with himself, he'd
expressed displeasure with everything else.

“I'm
dreadfully spoiled,” he said. “I've lived a sheltered
life, I'm afraid, and an idle one. Traveling in your country is hard
work, and I've never even done a day's
easy
work in my life.”

“Aye,
and such a man thinks he can protect
me.
Never have I heard anything so
crazy.” She began to move away.

Varian
lightly caught her arm to stop her. “Crazy or not, I want you
to stay away from the others,” he said. “If they observe
you closely, they'll surely discover you're not what you seem. We'll
eat together in my tent, and there you'll spend the night. It's the
only sensible thing to do.”

She
shook her head.

“Esme,”
he whispered harshly, “while I may be spoiled, I am
larger
than you, and I am quite serious
about this.”

“I
understand,
efendi.”

“Yet
you refuse?”

She
hesitated, then nodded and clicked her tongue.

What
in blazes was the problem? As he was trying to devise a more
convincing approach, he caught the glint of amusement in her eyes.

“May
I ask what you find so humorous?” he asked. “Is a flea
crawling up my nose?”

She
nodded. Though he'd felt nothing, he instantly let go of her to brush
at his nose.

“Four
days in my country and you never noticed this simple thing,”
she said. “When we shake our heads, that is 'Yes.' When we nod,
that is 'No.' Did you not say yourself we were backward? So it is.”
She laughed, mightily amused at her wit.

“I
see you mean to make me the butt of your jokes the whole long way to
Tepelena,” he said. “I must resign myself to playing the
fool
—
and
I a great English
bej
of
the
pashalik
of
Buckinghamshire. I can only hope a
bej
is some sort of nobleman, and not
the Albanian word for jackass.”

This,
too, tickled her, and as she dashed away to collect her belongings,
she was still laughing.

THEIR
SUPPER WAS the most amiable they'd shared so far. Evidently still
amused by the earlier exchange, she wasn't so quick as usual to take
offense at every word. This night they dined on fowl, rice, olives,
bread, and a malodorous cheese, but Varian made no complaint. He knew
he'd behaved disagreeably during the day and had best not try her
patience further. She might throw a temper fit and storm off to her
countrymen.

Fortunately,
a few swallows of the poisonous grape whiskey they called
raki
made the rest go down more easily.
Brewed, apparently, in the infernos of Hades, it was a demonic liquid
fire, more potent even than Italian
grappa.
The men gulped it down with their
meals as though it were spring water. At present, the raucous song
and laughter outside told Varian they were drunk, and Petro drunkest
of all, no doubt. All the more reason to keep her away from them,
Varian told himself righteously.

“What
are they singing?” he asked.

Esme
had cleared away the remains of their meal. She stood now by the tent
opening, the flap in her hand as she gazed out. The rain had dwindled
to a drizzle.

“It
is the tale of Ali Pasha's conquest of Prevesa,” she said.
“He's crazy sometimes, but a good general.”

The
tenor voices seemed to wail a funeral chant. That must

be
the Eastern influence, he thought, with its preference for the minor
key.

She
let the flap fall back into place and moved toward the center of the
tent, to the rug where he reclined against a low stack of blankets.
“Do you want me to translate it?” she asked as she
dropped gracefully into a cross-legged position opposite him.

“Not
if it's about warfare. I'm a man of peace. A lazy idler, as I told
you.”

“
Njeri
iplogët,”
she said. “Sluggard
man. Lazy bones.”

To
his ears, the Albanian language sounded guttural and harsh, as thick
and rough as their blankets. When uttered in her low-pitched voice,
however, the rough syllables became rich and breathy. Last night, the
caressing sound of her quiet good night had nearly undone him.

The
memory made him restless. “Teach me,” he said.

She
raised her eyebrows. “It is an ancient language, you know, much
inflected. Like Latin, but harder to pronounce. The consonants will
strangle your tongue.”

“I'm
not afraid,” he said. He gave up his lolling pose to sit
upright and cross-legged, as she did. “It will occupy me until
bedtime. Moreover, it will give you an ideal opportunity to make me
appear ridiculous.”

“I
may die of laughter,
efendi.
Then
you'll have only Petro as interpreter.”

“No,
I'll be dead, too, throttled by my own tongue.”

“Very
well. I warn you, though, it will be difficult.” She considered
briefly. “Perhaps no declensions at first, or you may begin
weeping.” She held up her strong little hand.
“Dore
—
hand.
There is definite and indefinite.
Dore,
dora.
But
I suppose you cannot hear the
difference?”

He
gave her a blank look.

“It
is not important,” she said patiently. “No one will
expect you to be a scholar. Say it the best you can.”

“Doh-lah,”
he responded gravely.

“No,
no. Not
'1',
but
'r.'
“
She
obligingly burred the 'r,' parting her mouth slightly to demonstrate.

Varian
was fully capable of mimicking the sound, and knew he shouldn't play
games with her. On the other hand,

how
could he resist, when she so ingenuously offered her luscious mouth
for his perusal?

A
child's mouth,
said a reproachful
voice in the back of his head. He didn't listen.

Varian
St. George had never heeded nagging internal voices in his life, and
was ill-equipped to begin now. What conscience he owned existed in
hopeless decrepitude. A mere glimpse of temptation was sufficient to
stifle it.

“Doh-dah,”
he said.

She
gazed at him with the stoical resignation of a tutor confronted with
a mentally deficient child. She sought simpler nouns, naming objects
in the tent, but nothing was simple enough. Varian listened and
watched attentively, then murdered every word.

Determined
to teach the thickheaded Englishman, Esme moved closer to allow him
better study of the movement of lips and tongue as she formed the
syllables.

“
Kokë,”
she said, pointing to her
head. 'Those are like English sounds, are they not?” She
touched her straight, delicately shaped nose with the tip of her
finger.
“Undë.”

Eyebrows,
eyes, cheeks, ears, mouth
—
she
recited them one by one, as patiently persistent as any evangelist
intent on a sinner's salvation. So near, so invitingly near. He
wanted to touch her, to trail his finger along the silky gold of her
cheek.

“
Gojë,”
she said, pointing to her
mouth. “Come, it is not so hard.”

No,
her mouth was soft and full and moist.
Come,
she'd said.
“Kokë,
syrtë, undë,”
he
said softly, perfectly. He leaned closer. He wanted that mouth, and
it was all in the world he wanted or knew at that moment.

“
Gojë,”
he whispered. His lips
brushed hers
—
the
lightest caress of a kiss, yet something crackled in him, like fear,
and he drew back, startled.

Not
nearly so startled as she. Her green eyes opened wide in
astonishment. Then her face blazed scarlet. Her hand shot out and
whacked the side of his head so hard that his ears rang and his eyes
watered.

“That
was not amusing.” She began rubbing her mouth vigorously.

As
he gingerly massaged the side of his head, Varian decided he'd never
met with a more deflating
—
or
appropriate
—
response. He'd been slapped
before, on the rare occasion, though not nearly so hard. Never,
however, had one of his kisses been wiped away with such utter
revulsion.

Still,
what did he expect? How had he dared to soil her innocent mouth with
his? Damn, and how could he not, being what he was, and finding her
so
...
enchanting?
Which she was, astonishingly enough, despite her ragged,
hideous
boy's attire and that godawful
woolen helmet.

At
the moment, however, Varian's most urgent problem was how to pacify
her. Admittedly, he'd experienced a moment of insanity, but he was
fully in control now. The men outside, on the other hand, were drunk.

“You
didn't find Petro's behavior yesterday amusing, either, yet you
didn't give
him
a
concussion,” Varian pointed out in aggrieved tones.

“
He
did not insult my person,” she
said icily.

“I
assure you, Esme, I meant no insult.”
.

“I
know. You meant only a joke. You pretended you could not say die
words
—”

“You
played a joke on me a short while ago,” he interrupted.
“Perhaps I wanted to get even.”

This
gave her pause. It was very curious
—
and
convenient, certainly
—
how
easily she accepted revenge as an excuse. Varian only wished she
wouldn't weigh his case with precisely that sulky expression. He
wanted to kiss the pout away, or tickle her, or do something
...
which would only offend her
dignity further and no doubt result in his immediate demise. Really,
you'd think he was twelve years old. Perhaps this was a case of
premature senility, the result of years of dissipation and
—

“Very
well,” she said. “I made you appear foolish, and so you
did the same to me. Still, I will warn you to keep such revenge to
words,
efendi.
Otherwise,
on the way to Tepelena, we may find ourselves in a blood feud. To
insult another's person is to strike a blow,” she explained,
“which likely will be returned. One time, one of us may be
tempted to strike a fatal one.”

Lord
love the girl. She saw no difference between being kissed and having
her ears boxed. Vain, had she called him? He'd not be for long, in
her company.

“I
quite agree,” he said. “I did overstep a bit with the
kiss. Fortunately, you took your revenge quickly, so I will not have
to lie awake all night, wondering what ghastly way you'll find to get
even.”

“No,
and I shall not have to lie awake devising sufficient ghastliness.”
She paused, and turned her head slightly, listening.

Outside,
there was only the faint sibilance of the drizzle.

“The
others have gone to sleep,” she said. “We'd best do the
same.”

As
he helped her arrange the blankets, Varian noticed with some surprise
that she placed hers next to his, just as though nothing had
happened. Clearly, she did not assume the “revenge kiss”
implied her virtue was in any danger. In that case, the words of
reassurance he'd contemplated offering would have quite the opposite
effect, and alarm her needlessly.

He
may have kissed her, but that was so brief you could hardly call it a
kiss, and certainly he wouldn't attempt to ravish the girl while she
slept. He would not
touch
her,
he told himself. In fact, he'd stay awake until she fell asleep, then
move his blankets some distance away so he couldn't touch her, even
unconsciously. Gad, at this rate, not a shred of indecency would be
left to him, he drought ruefully.