The Lion's Daughter (18 page)

for
themselves, love rarely entered their calculations.

Yet
Varian was certain this girl would have wed Satan himself to protect
her father. What sort of man had Jason been, to have spawned such a
daughter, to have merited such a love?

“I
suppose you might do worse,” he said. “Besides, you'd be
sure to have the mighty Ismal running at your beck and call in a
matter of hours.”

She
made
a moue
of
distaste. “I have no wish for a slave. I meant only that I
could contrive as other women do, and find happiness in my children.
If God is generous, I may have many.”

Varian
blinked. “You want to be a
mother?”

“Yes.
What is so shocking about that?”

“What's
so shocking?” he echoed. “Good grief, Esme, your entire
existence is one ghastly shock after another. You've got men shooting
at you, trying to abduct you, and English lords falling unconscious
at your feet. You haul foreigners from shipwrecks and drag them,
singlehanded, through a swamp the size of Australia. A few hours ago,
I watched you challenge half a town to battle and saw your knife
pointed at my own heart. Where in blazes do you expect to find time
to bear children?” he demanded. “What poor devil is going
to hold you still long enough to get one on you?”

“I
didn't mean
now”
she
said patiently.

“I'm
vastly relieved to hear it,” he said. “Being the only
poor devil in the immediate vicinity, I was, naturally, alarmed. Not
that I shouldn't like to oblige, my dear, but I'm afraid you've worn
me out.”

Her
face blazed crimson. “I did not mean you!”

“Oh,”
Varian looked away. “Yes, that does ease my mind. Because if
you had meant me, and you had meant now
...
Well, we know how it is when you
make your mind up to something, Esme. If twenty strong men couldn't
change your mind today, how is one weak-willed, exhausted fellow to
gainsay you this night?”

She
opened her mouth, then closed it. The crimson subsided and her
expression grew thoughtful. “You are provoked with me,”
she said. “That is why you make immodest jokes.”

“There
is that.”

“I
made a great turmoil for you,” she went on contritely.

“Now
they know I'm not dead, you worry that Ismal will send his men after
us again.”

“Among
other concerns.”

“I
am sorry,” she said. “But it is done,
efendi.”

“I
know.”

“You
should not trouble yourself. Ismal will not dare attack us now.”

“No,
certainly not. It won't be anything I might reasonably expect. It
will come from nowhere, some unimaginable horror.”

“You
worry too much,” she said. “You make deep lines in your
forehead.”

“My
hair is turning gray,” he said. “I can
feel
it.”

“No,
it is not.” She shifted her position, to make room for him,
then patted the rough pillow beside her.
“Hajde.
Come.”

Varian
stared at the small hand resting on the pillow. “I beg your
pardon?”

“Put
your head down,” she said. “I will make the lines go
away, and your worries as well.”

Varian
felt a halfhearted tremble of anticipation, but that was all. He was
truly worn out, body and spirit. She may have done all the work, but
being a helpless bystander had proved far more taxing. She was in no
danger from him tonight, and knew it.

Varian
lay down and closed his eyes. Only for a moment, he told himself.
Then he must leave.

“I
will tell you about the mountains,” she said softly. Her cool
hands stroked his brow. “Beautiful, reaching to the heavens,
where the eagles soar, our fathers.”

Her
fingers began to knead, and tiny streams of pleasure sped through
him.

“Cool
and clear, the water rushes down, bathing the white mountain side,
laughing as it goes.”

His
mind cleared and cooled, too, though he was warm under her touch, and
the warmth sank into his aching muscles.

“Your
hands are beautiful,” he murmured.

He
felt a pause
—
half
a heartbeat
—
before
she continued stroking, kneading, soothing.

“It
rushes to meet the forest below,” she went on, “where the
breeze laughs among the fir trees and wakes the songbirds.”

Her
voice faded to murmuring pines, far away. It was her hands that made
soft music, while Varian slipped deeper into a darkness like velvet,
a darkness that enveloped him with a warm gladness, astonishingly
like peace.

ESME
WATCHED HIM sleep, his finely sculptured features touched by ghostly
shadows in the flickering light of the single oil lamp. She ought to
put the light out. She ought to leave, make her bed elsewhere in the
small room at least. She could not lie beside him this night. She
dared not. With one act of generosity, he had shattered her defenses.

She'd
needed him
—
though
she'd have cut her own throat before admitting it
—
and
he'd come. He'd stood by her, against half the town, though he owed
her nothing, not even loyalty.

He'd
stood and watched while she tended the ugly wound, though the sight
must have sickened his sensitive nature, unused to hardship,
violence, ugliness. But so it had been from the start. She'd shown
him nothing else.

She
should not have made him take this journey with her. He didn't
understand her people. To him, Albania was nothing but ugliness and
brutality, and she had made him endure it.

Esme
looked down at her hands, which were trembling. Beautiful, he'd said.
Yet they were brown and hard. Good hands for work, for fighting, but
not beautiful. Never.

What
would he think if he ever learned why she was taking him to Tepelena,
why she subjected him to so much trouble? What would he think if he
guessed that the hands he called beautiful would soon be stained with
a man's blood?

Dear
God, let him never learn the truth. Above all, let this man never
guess how his generosity had gouged her heart and poisoned it with
shameful wishes.

The
oil lamp sputtered and smoked, and the air of the room seemed to grow
heavy, an oppressive mass that throbbed with the pounding of her
heart. Esme wanted to flee, far away, where she could breathe easily
again, her spirit light, without burden.

That
was impossible. Nevertheless, she could and must escape his lean
body's beckoning nearness. She had only to rise and cross the room.
She reached to draw the blanket over him.

He
stirred and breathed a sigh. His eyes opened, dark gleaming pools,
and his mouth curved into a sleepy smile.

“Your
hands are beautiful,” he said softly. Then he caught her
trembling fingers and brought them to his lips.

His
mouth brushed her knuckles, and her pulse raced in answer.

No.
Her lips formed the words, but no sound came out.

No,
again, as he turned her hand over, and once more, no sound. She must
speak, or admit her shame, but she was shamed already, for she
couldn't utter the simple word.

His
lips sank into the softness of her palm, and Esme caught her breath
as pleasure pierced her, sharp as a stiletto. Then again, and again,
as he trailed tiny, lingering kisses to her wrist and found at last
her betraying, throbbing pulse. A moment only it was, yet surely he'd
need no more to read her heart's clamorous message. At last his mouth
released her, and the tingling shocks subsided. She told herself to
move away, far away, but his intent silver gaze pinioned her.

“I
need you,” he whispered, and in the space of a heartbeat, he
reached out and pulled her down to him.

Her
small body sank against his without struggle, though she'd full
reason to resist
—
and
quickly. She knew his strength and his swiftness. She knew as well
how his touch made a shambles of reason, and scattered right and
wrong to the wind.

Without
protest or struggle, she'd go speedily to her disgrace, all the
greater because she knew what he was and what he sought. But her
heart leapt in gladness when his hands caught in her hair and pulled
her face to his. She knew she'd be lost, that dishonor hastened
toward her. But his wicked mouth was a breath away, and Esme wanted
it so badly she could weep.

She
closed her eyes, and he swept her into a long kiss that made the
world reel crazily. His smooth fingers drew trails of tingling warmth
along her skull, and her thoughts scattered like sparks from a
crackling hearth. His hard body pressed its heat to hers, and her
tense muscles yielded like metal to fire and forge. His tongue coaxed
and, obedient to his gentle urging, Esme parted her lips.

The
cool taste of his flesh within her was a shock, but only for an
instant before a rush of dark pleasure swamped all else. His tongue
coiled about hers, and the taste was like a wicked secret. It was sin
she tasted, and sin was a delicious drunkenness. It was treacherously
sweet, an insidious poison that seeped to her soul. This was evil she
tasted, the wickedness of his heart. Though he was as beautiful as a
god, Esme knew this was not paradise he took her to. Here danger
thrummed in the darkness. Yet it seemed she'd hungered for this all
her life.

His
mouth left hers to draw fire trails along her cheek and tease at her
ear, then on, to kiss the throbbing pulse at her throat. Esme caught
her breath, and her eyes flew open. But a wicked secret seeped into
her skin where his mouth touched it, and the secret sped through her,
making her forget all else. Languorous pleasure streamed through her,
and she sighed. Yes. This. His mouth whispering evil to her flesh
...
a path of tiny kisses, tongues of
fire along her shoulder
...
the rustle of linen as the shirt
slipped down, down, and was gone
...
the cool night air upon her
exposed skin. But the air soon warmed to languorous smoke, rich with
his masculine scent. His smooth fingers slid, achingly slow, down her
naked breast, and her heart raced in answer:
Yes.
Touch me. Make me beautiful.

She
became beautiful, soft as velvet, for a dark god held her and
transformed her with his caress. She wanted to be beautiful, always,
wanted more. Her body strained toward his, yearning to be melted and
changed. She would liquefy in his hands, and he'd mold her into a
goddess.

He
drew back, though she could still feel his breath upon her as he
gazed at her. “You're so beautiful.” His voice was rough.

Yes.
He'd made her so. Esme wanted to tell him. She couldn't. She wasn't
Esme any more, but molten liquid, a hot stream of pleasure coiling
about him. Her fingers curled round his neck and crept into the silky
waves of his hair.

He
shuddered, drew her closer, and pushed his knee between her legs. His
hands slid up her thighs, then he sank against her once more, and his
tongue traced a slow, curling path to the sensitive peak of her
breast. His warm mouth drew upon her tender flesh, draining her, only
to flood her with rapture that made her moan. The stream of pleasure
swelled into a beautiful, wild sea. She wrapped about him tighter
still, pressing her thighs against his, demanding more, impatient now
with gentleness.

His
hands dragged hard down the length of her body, while he murmured
words she couldn't understand. Then he rolled

her
fully onto her back and sought her mouth. Again and again his tongue
plunged and coiled within her, and she surged like a great wave,
yearning to break upon the shore. Higher and higher she surged, only
to find no release. She didn't want it to stop, yet she'd surely die
if it didn't.

His
restless hands found her breasts again, her waist, then slid lower,
toward the intimate place between her legs. She understood it must be
so. She had to be his, and must yield all her secrets, all her self.
Yet when she felt his touch upon that most private of places, fear
stabbed her. She drew back instinctively
—
for
an instant only
—
but
he paused.

His
breathing was labored, and his long sigh shaky. He rolled away from
her, onto his back, leaving her chilled
...
and alone. Then rose all the
shame desire had so thoroughly subjugated while he made love to her.
Her face burned.

A
long moment passed.

“Good
God, Esme,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “You
weren't leaving it up to me, were you? Did you think it would ever
occur to me to stop?”

“I
was not thinking.” Her own voice was thick as well. She felt as
though she'd been fighting ten armies singlehanded, though she'd
never fought at all. “How is a woman to think when you do such
things to her? Once you begin, it is impossible to be sensible.
Impossible.” She fixed her humiliated gaze upon the ceiling. “I
could not stop you. I did not wish to stop you. I am ashamed to say
this, but it is the truth. If you wish to dishonor me, I cannot
prevent it. You make me as stupid as a
sheep.”