The Lion's Daughter (13 page)

ESME
WOKE TO darkness and the not entirely unfamiliar sensation of weight
upon her. A long arm curled round her waist, and a long, lean body
pressed along the length of her back. She had wrapped her blanket
about her like a cocoon, and no part of his flesh touched hers, yet
she was as acutely aware of every masculine bone and sinew as if she
were naked. The images she conjured up made her face hot, and she
stirred uneasily.

He
mumbled something into her neck, and the arm pressed her closer. Then
abruptly, it jerked away, and the heavy warmth of him vanished, too.
He thrashed at the blankets. “Bloody hell,” his voice
came, a growling whisper.

She
turned and found he was sitting up.

“
I
woke you,” he said.

“I
was awake,” she said to his shadowy form. “It is nearly
dawn.”

“Have
I been crushing you the whole curst night?” He sounded angry.

“You
are large, but you are not an elephant. I am not crushed.”

Only
embarrassed, she added inwardly. To be held so was more than warming;
it made something inside her rush and pound, like a flock of swallows
beating their wings. She'd felt that when his lips had touched hers:
a terrible sweetness, come and gone in an instant, and afterward the
flurried throbbing within. She should have felt nothing, and so was
dismayed with herself.

“I'm
sorry,” he said. “I didn't
—
I
didn't insult you, did I?”

“No.”

There
was a long pause. Then he said in more normal tones, “And I
trust you didn't insult my person, did you, miss?”

“No!
What do you
—”
Her face burned. “Oh, it is
a joke.”

“Or
wishful thinking,” he muttered. He caught his breath, then went
on. “That is to say, I distinctly felt something bite me, and I
rather hoped it was you because
—”

“You
wished me to
bite
you?”

“Because
otherwise it was some other creature that bit me. There being a great
many of them and only one of you, the latter odds were less
disheartening, you see.”

“Then
perhaps you should not sleep so close,
efendi.
I think the fleas find you more
appetizing, and so mine may travel to you,” she added guiltily.

“I
don't mean to sleep so close. It just seems to happen. I suppose you
find me very troublesome.”

The
air in the tent carried a faint, fresh promise of morning, and the
heavy darkness was receding, leaving a somber veil of gray light in
its wake. He sat with his knees drawn up and his arms loosely crossed
upon them. Even in the gloomy shadows, he seemed a work of sculptor's
art, too beautiful to be mortal flesh and blood. He was indeed
troublesome, she thought. Her mind should remain fixed on her duty,
on a father's murder to be avenged, but this man called her mind away
to fasten on him instead.

“Yes,”
she said.

“You
won't believe this, Esme, but normally I'm most agreeable company.
It's one of my few talents. I can make myself agreeable to just about
anybody.”

He
hesitated, then went on in light tones, “Otherwise, I'd surely
have starved to death by now. You see, all I've got to my name
is
my name. That and a skill for
pleasing is what feeds, clothes, and houses me.”

She
turned a disbelieving gaze upon him.

“It's
quite true,” he assured her. “Like my untitled brothers,
the fleas, I'm a parasite. But a charming one. I never bite, for
instance.”

“I
believe you can be agreeable,” she said. “At least to the
women, or you would not have had so many.”

“I
should like to know exactly what Petro has been telling you. I'm sure
it's a hideous exaggeration
—”

“He
said you were addicted to females, and that they all throw themselves
at you shamelessly, and so you've had your pick of Italy's most
beautiful women. I understand Italy has many such,” she said
expressionlessly.

“I
have not been a monk, precisely, but
—”

“Therefore
I am not surprised you can be charming. I was surprised only that you
are poor.” Esme did not want to reflect further upon the series
of mouths he'd kissed
—
and
not in joke
—
or
the voluptuous bodies his smooth, long fingers had caressed
—
and
not recoiled from.

“I
am penniless,” he said.
“That's
no exaggeration.”

“Then
it is one thing we have in common,” she said.

“I
doubt it raises your opinion of me, however.”

“My
opinion is of no consequence.”

“If
it weren't, I shouldn't be going to all this bother to tell you what
a pleasant fellow I really am. I wish you would pay attention, Esme,
and stop distracting me,” he complained. “There was a
point I wished to make, about two centuries ago, before you detoured
into my promiscuity.”

“I
beg your pardon,
efendi.”
Folding her hands, Esme gave him her
full attention
—
and
found it very difficult to suppress a smile. With that aggrieved
expression on his face and his black hair tousled every which way, he
looked like a sulky schoolboy.

“I
was trying to explain,” he said reproachfully, “that I'm

not
naturally bad-tempered. It's the fleas and the dirt. Even those I
could endure stoically enough if I could be assured of regular, hot
baths and fresh changes of clothing. But to sleep in the same filthy
clothes I traveled in all day, then to wake and spend another filthy
day in the same foul garments, while the vermin continue to feed and
breed upon me
—
well,
it does make me wild.”

She
did smile then, though she looked away. “Ah, Varian
Shenjt
Gjergj,
you call yourself penniless,
yet I cannot imagine such a life as you live. Hot baths whenever you
wish, and always clean clothes. I doubt even the most pampered of a
rich man's concubines knows such luxury. If this is what you are
accustomed to, it is not surprising that our journey makes you cross.
I shall try to be more understanding in the future.”

“You
think I'm childish, all the same,” he said. “Shall I tell
you what it's like, and let you judge whether it's childish to want
such things?”

“As
you wish,” she said with a shrug. “It is too late to go
back to sleep. The others will rise soon.”

“Then
let me charm you. Let me paint you a picture.” He unfolded his
long body to lean back on his elbows, and closed his eyes.

Then
he began to speak, his voice soft and dreamy as he described a
luxurious room, the floors laid with rich carpets
...
coals glowing in the hearth
...
an enormous copper tub, smooth
and deep, filled with steaming water. There was soap, sweet with the
scent of herbs and flowers, and a maidservant gently washing her.
There was Esme, luxuriating in the scented warmth
...
then rising from the water like
Aphrodite
...
soft,
thick towels enveloping her. He painted Paradise, but it was more
than a painting. The words and his dreamy tone seeped into her very
soul and made her ache with longing.

She
didn't realize she'd closed her eyes until the low, smoky sound of
his voice abruptly ceased. Opening them, she found him staring at her
very strangely, the smile gone. She flushed and looked away.

“Oh,
Lord,” he murmured. Then he scrambled up and strode out of the
tent.

Chapter
7

IGNORING
THE MEN STARING AT HIM IN SLEEPY astonishment, Varian stomped toward
the river. En route, he nearly collided with Petro, who'd emerged
from behind a bush, hastily arranging his trousers.

“What
is wrong, master?” he cried as Varian thrust past him.

“Nothing.”

“But
you are angry, master. Is it the child? Y'Allah, what has the little
wretch done now?” Petro asked, trotting alongside.

“I'm
not angry,” Varian ground out. “I'm going to have a wash,
and I don't need an escort. Go make yourself useful, and try to boil
some coffee that doesn't taste as though it were spewed from a
cesspit.”

“A
wash?” Petro shrieked. “In the river? You will freeze
your privates, and they will drop off like pieces of ice.”

“Go
make the coffee, drat you, and leave me in peace.”

Petro
uttered a soulful sigh, then shrugged and turned back toward the
camp, doubtless to inform the company that his master had taken leave
of his senses.

He
would not be far wrong, Varian thought. Certainly the master no
longer recognized his own mind. When the Turk

had
struck his head, some rotting mental door to the blackest part of
Varian's soul had surely come unhinged. Because only the most corrupt
and depraved of men could lust for a child.

He'd
promised himself he wouldn't touch her, yet he'd wakened with Esme's
slight body crushed to his, and his own rigid with wanting. Even when
he sat talking normally, it wasn't normal at all. The whole time he'd
contrived excuses for himself: she wasn't
really
a child, not by her country's
standards; she was old enough to wed and bear children, therefore old
enough to be bedded.

He
knew that wanting her was wrong, and all his twisted reasoning
wouldn't make it right. All the same, her low, soft voice was right,
and that whisper of a body had felt right enough in his arms. And so
he'd chattered nothing but drivel, more excuses, and hated himself
because he couldn't stop making them.

He'd
felt, Varian reflected in frustration, like a schoolboy, infatuated
with a girl who'd as soon knock him down as look at him. He'd behaved
like one, too, trying to coax tolerance from her, or, dammit, even
pity.

Which
had backfired nicely, hadn't it? To speak of bathing, of all things,
and burn that image in his mind: her slim, untouched body stepping
from the bath into his waiting arms
...
her skin, naked and wet against
his
...
her
soft, ripe mouth offering up its innocence to his.

He
groaned and sank to his knees at the river's edge. Closing his eyes,
he plunged his hands into the frigid torrent and gasped at the shock.
Determinedly, he drenched his face. It wasn't enough. He needed a
punishment he'd recollect with dread the next time this filthy lust
got hold of him.

Varian
set his teeth and began to pull off his clothes.

“I
THINK HE has gone mad,” Petro said sadly as he took the
blankets from Esme. She'd sent the protesting dragoman back after his
master, and Petro had reached the stream in time to see his lordship
emerge naked and shivering from the icy water.

“He
complained of the dirt and fleas,” she answered, betraying none
of her own anxiety. “Besides, he's English, and they have
strange customs.”

Not
until the party was well on its way, and Petro safely out of hearing
range, did she express her feelings to his lordship.

“Why
must you do such a stupid thing?” she scolded. “Did I
nurse you for nothing? Is the journey not hard enough for you? Must
you make yourself ill? The streams are cold enough in the height of
summer. Now they will stop the blood in your veins, and your limbs
will fall off.”

“Actually,
I found the experience most
...
invigorating,” he answered.
“My blood still tingles.”

“You
are a crazy man. And I warn you, if you become sick, I shall not
nurse you again. I shall stand by your deathbed and
laugh.”

“Don't
be cross, love. The sun has condescended to shine today, and your
scowl will frighten it away.”

Esme
hastily subsided, though not for fear of driving away the sun. It was
the careless endearment that stopped her tongue. When he said her
name, the whispery sound seemed to call to her very being. This was
worse.

Love.
It called back the touch of his
mouth upon hers and the hot pressure of his body against her back.
Those recollections brought a tremble of sensations within her that
left her disoriented and wistful, like one waking from a bittersweet
dream.

Esme
was not given to self-delusion. She suspected what her trouble was,
and could not be altogether amazed. Petro had said his master had a
way with women. Moreover, she doubted any female could spend so much
time in the company of such godlike beauty and remain unaffected,
worthless and dissolute as this particular deity might be. His face
and form, unfortunately, betrayed nothing of his weak character, nor
did the smoky sound of his persuasive voice. When one admired a
handsome palace and longed to live there, Esme reflected, one did not
think of the rats scurrying about in its bowels.