The Lion's Daughter (15 page)

Her
head went up. 'They told wicked stories and you would not let me
hear?”

“It
doesn't matter what kind of stories. You know why you have to keep
away from the men, Esme, so there's no need to look at me in that
murderous way.”

“You
might have given me something to do,” she grumbled. 'To wait
idly, with no company, is tiresome.”

A
lazy lure of a smile curved his wicked mouth. “Forgive me,”
he said. “I had no idea you were longing for my company. How
cruel of me to deprive you.”

To
her consternation, Esme felt her cheeks heat. She raised her chin.
“Indeed,
efendi,
my
beautiful god. You have broken my heart. I think I shall run to the
river and drown myself.”

Her
spine straight, she began to march past him. His hand shot out and
lightly caught her arm.

Esme
looked down at his long, smooth hand, then up into his face, and her
heartbeat quickened.

“I
was only teasing,” he said. “I know you'd rather the
Devil's company than mine.”

“I
think that is much the same thing,” she answered tartly. “You
may let go of me. I cannot run away. I have no place to go.”

“I'm
sorry.” He slid his hand down her arm, where it lingered a
moment to leave a tingle of warmth. Then, finally, he released her.
“Shall I tell Petro to keep you company tonight? I can't leave
you by yourself.”

Petro
—
that
fearful old woman
—
her
guard? How dare he? Yet Esme knew why. His almighty lordship didn't
want
her
low
company.

“You
think I need
him?”
she
cried. “What is wrong with you? Only tell me where to sleep and
I shall make my bed there. Here, if you like. What have I to fear?
Kidnappers
—
when I'm
dead?
Wild beasts? There are none
hereabouts. And besides, I have my rifle and my knife and
—”

“And
you're a female,” he interrupted, “so it's no good
telling me how capable you are of defending yourself. I'm an
Englishman, recollect, and it's against our rules to leave women to
fend for themselves. You shouldn't even be traveling with me without
a chaperon, but I can hardly get you one when you're supposed to be a
boy.” He sighed, then started back toward the tent.

After
a moment's hesitation, Esme followed.

“You
make a great piece of trouble about nothing,” she said as she
trailed him into the tent. “You agitate yourself for no reason.
If this is the English way, I must tell you it is stupid and crazy.
My father reared me to protect myself, not be sheltered and coddled
by others. I am not a babe, and it is offensive to be treated like
one.”

His
back was turned to her, and he was pulling off his cloak. He flung it
to the ground and swung round to face her.

“I
do beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “How do you wish to
be treated?”

His
tower of a body vibrated with anger. Only a fool would provoke him
further. Esme's brain told her to
shut
up,
but she was beyond heeding it.
“As I appear,” she snapped. “As a boy. Even a boy
of twelve, like my cousin, is considered a man, not a helpless
infant.”

He
advanced and, in a flash, yanked off her headdress and threw it onto
the cloak. Her tangled hair fell loose against her shoulders, and she
immediately felt undressed. She started to back away, but his hands
clamped down on her shoulders. Not so strong a grip. She might easily
break free. She didn't want to, and hated herself.

“You
can't change your gender with a hat,” he said. “You're
not
a
boy, and all the wishing in the world won't make you one. You are a
wretched, quarrelsome female, and you are plaguing me to death. I'm
trying to behave like a gentleman
—
why must you make it so curst
impossible?” His hands moved from her shoulders, up her neck,
to cup her face. “Why, Esme?”

She
didn't know. Within, a vast impatience consumed her. She'd always
been so levelheaded, above vanity, yet looking into that beautiful,
dissipated countenance, Esme wished desperately she were beautiful as
well, that she might dare to touch him
...

She
closed her eyes. If she couldn't see, she wouldn't weaken.

“Oh,
don't,” he whispered, so near his breath caressed her skin. A
tiny shiver ran down her neck. Nearly in the same instant, she felt
the soft warmth of his mouth touching hers. A shower of sparks darted
through her, a delicious feeling of gladness.

Instinctively,
she touched his sleeve, to keep him there. Miraculously, it worked.
The warmth sank down upon her, and his lips clung to hers like
morning dew upon a budding rose. For one long moment, she felt as
beautiful as a rosebud, all her being opening in pleasure as a flower
opens to a warm spring dawn.

He
scarcely held her, his hands lightly cupping her face.

Esme
felt only the lightest pressure as his lips moved gently over hers,
but that was an aching sweetness which swelled within her while he
lingered
...
as
though it were delicious to him, as though he savored what he tasted
there.

But
that was impossible. All he could feel was curiosity. Though she was
another species to him, she was a female, as he'd reminded her so
angrily. Being addicted to females, he must, naturally, investigate
even this pitiful specimen. He must toy with her and discover if she
was like other women.

Esme
pulled her head back, and his eyes opened in sleepy surprise. 'That
is enough,” she said shakily.

“No,
it isn't.” His voice was soft and thick as velvet. His hands
gently threaded through her hair, and his gaze, warm smoke, drifted
slowly from her mouth to her eyes and back again.

“Enough
to satisfy your curiosity,” Esme answered firmly, stiffening
her posture. She ought to break free entirely, because his body was
much too close, making her want, so weak she was, to lay her head
upon his chest. Yet the tension she sensed in him made her cautious.
She'd provoked him moments ago, and he'd found a devastating method
of bringing her to heel.

“I'm
not at all curious,” he said. “I understand you well
enough, and never has comprehension been more vexing. You don't want
me to look after you. You don't want me to understand you. You don't
even want me to like you. You most especially don't want me to like
you as a woman. Well, I don't want to worry about you, or understand
you, or like you in any way.” His hands slid slowly to her
shoulders. “But nothing goes as we want, does it? Gad, how long
is it since we first collided, Esme? Less than a week? Does time pass
so slowly here, or is it something in the air?”

Esme
did break away then. His words may not be entirely enlightening, for
all the immense English vocabulary he possessed. Her intuition,
however, filled in the gaps. She understood what he told her, though
she could scarcely believe it. He felt what she did, or something
like it. But it meant nothing, she told herself. A whim. A man's
need, perhaps. Nothing more.

She
moved several steps away and pushed her heavy hair

back
from her face. Her head wrap lay near his feet. She wanted its
protection. She felt too exposed. Nonetheless, she was not inclined
to retrieve it.

“You
and I have many troubles in our minds,
efendi.”
She spoke in her most reasonable
tones, her gaze upon the ground. “The way is difficult and
slow, and these problems, as well as our differences, agitate us.
Confined together with our troubles and differences, it is no wonder
we feel so much
...
vexation. I think, at times, you
will drive me mad. It is not surprising that you feel the same.”

“Oh,
indeed.” His voice was tight, and she felt the angry tension
growing again. “I kissed you in a fit of temporary insanity, I
suppose.”

“Aye,”
she said. “And I must have been in the same state to permit
it.”

“That's
a relief. At least you weren't humoring me. My vanity is already in
tatters. Thank you ever so much for sparing me a shred at least.”

His
vanity?
His
feelings? What of her? Did he think
she was made of wood?

“What
do you want me to say,
efendi?
Tell
me. I'm not practiced in such matters. Should I tell you I was
swooning with desire?”

“Yes,
dammit!
I
was!”

She
caught her breath, and her gaze shot to his.

“I
was,” he repeated more quietly. Then he snatched up his cloak
and turned away. “Disgusting, isn't it? As though you hadn't a
low enough opinion of me already.”

He
thrust the tent flap aside and left.

Chapter
8

AFTER
SENDING PETRO TO THE TENT TO KEEP Esme company, Varian punished
himself in the brutally frigid stream. Then, as an extra dose of
self-chastisement, he ate with the men. This turned out to be a
surprisingly light penance. They'd established something like rapport
earlier, when he'd helped set up camp. Communication wasn't
completely impossible. One of the men
—
the
youngest
—
knew
a few words of English. Varian had picked up a word of Albanian here
and there, and hand gestures helped. When at a loss, they resorted to
drawing primitive pictures in the damp dirt with sticks.

The
labor of trying to comprehend and make oneself understood provided
some distraction from his troubling thoughts. Yet when the meal ended
and the men began to sing, Varian found his gaze turning repeatedly
to his tent. Doubtless the men sang war songs, but the music sounded
like longing to him.

He
rose.
“Natën
e
mire,”
he
said.

Agimi,
the one who spoke a bit of English, held up the
raki
flask. 'Take,” he said. “Warm.
Good. You need.”

Varian
smiled. They'd warned him most politely and patiently against bathing
in the rivers. Too cold. Bad for the chest, they insisted. Also, it
made “Zigur” most angry. Agimi had clutched his head and
shaken it from side to side, indicating that the child's scolding
made one's head ache.

Varian
took the
raki.
“Thank
you,” he said.
Faleminderit.”
Agimi shrugged.
“S'ka
gjë.”
It's nothing. “You
need.” Perhaps he did. What Varian needed most, though, was an
apology, and he'd not yet composed a satisfactory one.

ESME
WAS PLAYING
vingt-et-un
with
Petro when Varian entered. She did not look up.

“Ah,
master, at last you come!” Petro cried, throwing down his
cards. “May I go now?”

“I
should think you'd want to play the game through,” Varian said.
“Don't you care whether you win?”

Petro
scrambled to his feet. “With this one, there is no winning. She
gives me the evil eye and all my luck goes away.” He scowled at
Esme.

She
gazed coolly back at him. “Then go out and kill a snake,”
she said, “and cut off its head with silver. When the head is
dry, wrap it up with a medal of
Shenjt
Gjergj,
and take it to a priest to
be blessed.”

Petro
pulled out the cord he wore about his neck. On it dangled a rock of
some sort “I have a charm against evil,” Petro said. “A
piece of the heavens, from a falling star. But your witchcraft is too
strong.”

“Everyone
knows meteorites are good only against gunshot, you superstitious old
woman,” she said. “But you make do because you are afraid
to kill a snake.” She shrugged. “It is no great matter.
Tomorrow I will kill one for you.”

“And
one for me as well?” Varian inquired.

“I
did not give you the evil eye,
efendi,”
she muttered as she gathered up the
cards. “There is no such thing.”

Petro
gasped. “Do not say so. The eye will fall upon you.”

“If
I believed in such foolishness,” she returned angrily, “I
would declare that it fell upon me a week ago
—
when
you crept out upon the
Durrës
shore with my cousin.”

“Ungrateful
child! Had we not come, they would have taken
you,
and then
—”

Varian
clamped a heavy hand upon Petro's
shoulder. “Go away,” he said, “until I call you
back.”