The Lion's Daughter (23 page)

He
wanted to lie. He couldn't, not under that steadfast green gaze.
“No.”

“Perhaps
someone, even my young cousin, may persuade them to charity. That is
bad enough in any case, but in England, among foreigners
—
I
do not think I could bear it. It is my fault, perhaps. I am too
proud.”

“Yes.
Proud.”

“Here,
in my own country, I have no kin but my grandmother in Gjirokastra. I
can go to live with her, but she is old, and when she dies, I shall
have no home, no kin. I will become Ali's property, to dispose of as
he wishes. So you see, my best hope is to get a husband.”

“Oh,
Lord.” Varian knew what was coming. Already his mind had
frantically scrambled down every path, seeking a solution. He knew
what it was. There was only one answer. A sick dread settled upon his
heart.

“I
am going to Ismal,” she said.

“Oh,
lovely.” His voice was taut. “The man who killed your
father.”

She
clicked her tongue, the Albanian “tsk” that negated and
dismissed in an instant. “Even Mustafa does not believe that. I
have thought on it long and hard, and find I cannot believe it,
either. I told you some of my thoughts in Poshnja. It makes no sense
to me, to anybody. Bajo alone blamed Ismal, but I believe Bajo would
have said anything to make me leave. He thought of nothing but my
father's wish to take me to England. He did not think how Jason's
death changed everything. It is much the same with my poor cousin. He
wants to fulfill his mother's wish
—
a
kind one, if Jason had lived, even if she had lived. But they are
gone, and their wish is gone, impossible.”

Varian
bowed his head. He wanted to argue, but all he could offer were sweet
assurances, to bury the bitter truth. If he took her away, she'd be
miserable. To live in exile would be hard enough in the best of
circumstances. To be exiled among people who'd despise or pity her,
in a world where she could never belong? Her spirit couldn't bear it.
Esme was fearless. Physical danger didn't alarm her. The life
awaiting her in England, though, would surely kill her, and she knew
it.

He
felt her brush a lock of hair back from his forehead, as she'd done
countless times when he lay ill. Always he wanted to kiss that hand
in gratitude, because its magic touch dissolved pain and trouble. Now
it burned his skin like acid, and

the
poison streamed through his blood, a searing river of jealousy,
frustration, and fear.

He
saw a fair-haired stranger with blue jewel eyes who'd wanted her
badly enough to steal her
...
her hand, brushing back that
golden hair
...
her
voice, low and soft, telling this young prince of the white
mountainside and the fir trees and the rushing river
...
her supple body, roused to
passion in the arms of a young man of her own kind, who'd murmur love
words in her own tongue.

It
was right, wasn't it? To Varian the vision was loathsome, yet it was
Esme's only hope of happiness. He wanted her. He needed her. That was
all. He'd nothing to offer but promises, and those must be lies,
because whatever he felt, always, was for the moment. Nothing lasted,
least of all desire.

“Will
you help me?” she asked. “Will you let me go?”

“Yes,”
Varian said, raising his head at last. “No.”

Chapter
13

THEY
STOOD BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD FOR more than an hour, arguing. Yes,
Varian would help her. No, he most certainly would
not
allow her to go alone to Tepelena.

Forcing
herself to remain calm, Esme tried to explain how reasonable and safe
her plan was: she'd worked out her route carefully; she knew what she
was doing.

It
was no use. He wouldn't listen. If she wouldn't return willingly to
Mustafa's, his lordship coldly told her, he would pick her up and
carry her
—
kicking
and screaming, if necessary.

In
icy silence, Esme returned with him to the house, then stormed to her
cousin's room. She found Percival studying the rocks he'd collected
that day.

Reluctant
to spoil the boy's excitement about his discoveries, Esme dutifully
inspected the heap of stones.

“We'd
best hire a couple of donkeys,” she said. “Your own pouch
will never hold all these. You might build a fortress with what
you've gathered in Berat alone.”

“They're
much too small to build with,” he answered patiently. “But
I do mean to make an organized display, with notes on every specimen.
Perhaps in the library at the country house. The estate was
Grandfather's,” he explained, “so it's

Papa's,
but Papa hates it, and lets Grandmama live there. He can't sell it,
you see, because the property's entailed.”

Here
Percival launched into a dissertation on primogeniture. Only with
great perseverance did Esme succeed in leading him back to his plans
for the rocks.

When
she was gone, she would think of her young cousin. She didn't want to
reflect upon his lonely existence. She wanted to envision him happy,
organizing his rock collection and making his voluminous notes about
them. Then he'd grow into a man with children of his own. He'd show
them the stones of Albania and tell of his adventures, and of the Red
Lion and the cousin who looked like him. He'd not forget her, not
Percival. By the time he was a man, he'd surely have forgiven her for
deserting him. No, more than that. He'd understand then, and thank
her in his heart for sparing him.

“They
belong in a library, don't you think?” he was saying. “Because
rocks are like books. What they're made of tells you about their
history. Now they're part of my history as well. Of course, I shall
have to keep them in boxes until I'm grown up, because Grandmama
doesn't
—”

“Hush.”
Esme held her hand up. “Someone's come.”

“I
don't hear anything.”

She'd
sensed it minutes before, though she'd not really heeded, for it was
only a vague awareness, far beyond Perci-val's voice and her own
troubled thoughts. She heard clearly now: heavy footsteps, and the
murmur of voices.

“Good
heavens,” said Percival. “What acute hearing you must
have, to be sure. I just now
—
but
it's like
Durrës.
You heard the men coming well
before I did.” Then his eyes opened very wide, and Esme saw a
flash of panic there.

The
voices were distinct now. Lord Edenmont's, clipped and irritated,
though she couldn't make out what he said. Another voice soon rose
above the rest and launched into grandiloquence.

Percival
started to get up. Esme grabbed his arm, and he sank back down.

“What's
wrong?” he whispered. “Something's wrong, isn't it?”

He
must sense the tension in her, just as Esme sensed the trouble
itself. Not that one needed especially acute perceptions. Authority
had its own sound, an arrogance one heard in a man's footfall as well
as his voice. She had felt its approach and heard it clearly when it
invaded the house. There was but one authority in these realms. The
voice only confirmed, allowing her to put a name to the speaker:
Fejzi, one of Ali's secretaries.

“Something
must be wrong,” she answered, speaking her thoughts aloud,
scarcely aware of the boy near her as she concentrated on the voices.
“There was no reason for them to come, not in such numbers. A
dozen at least
—
no,
more
—
perhaps
a score. Ali's men.” She paused a moment as another voice
launched into fulsome speech.

Nearby,
she heard an odd, choked sound. Turning to her cousin, she found he'd
gone white.

“Oh,
dear.” He grasped her hand. “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

“What?”

He
stared at her with glazed eyes. “Oh, dear. It's my fault. It's
him.”

“Who?
Risto?” she demanded, for that was the new voice. One of Ali's
men, but also one of Ismal's associates. “You know him?”

The
hand clutching hers had grown cold and damp. “He never saw me,”
the boy said. His voice was shaky. “I'm positive. Oh, dear.”

“Saw
you when? What is wrong with you? There is no reason to be
frightened. They'd not harm you.” Esme released his hand and
moved closer to put her arm about his thin shoulders. He trembled.
“Come, Percival. You are a brave boy. You're not afraid of a
lot of stupid courtiers.”

“Yes,
I am. I think
—
oh,
it's most embarrassing, but I do think I'm going to be
sick.”

In
an instant, she'd hauled him to his feet. In the next, she was
pushing him through the door, then pulling him down the narrow
passage leading to the small courtyard at the rear of the house. As
they descended the stairs, she saw no soldiers loitering about.
Whatever their reason for coming, it hadn't motivated them to
surround the house. That was reassuring.

Percival's
near-hysterical state was not. He was not an hysterical sort of boy.
He'd endured an abduction and called it an exciting adventure. He
never screamed in the night, plagued

by
terrifying dreams. He never seemed uneasy or tense or anxious. He
was, Esme felt certain, composed of the same stoical fiber as
herself. If he was frightened, then he must have good reason.

Y'Allah,
but even in this state he would not forget his wretched rocks. He'd
snatched up his pouch as she dragged him from the room. Now he
clutched at it while he leaned against the low garden wall and gasped
for air.

“Oh,
thank heaven,” he said, after his chest had finally stopped
heaving. “It would be mortifying to cast up my accounts in
front of a girl.”

“Percival,
they may call for us at any moment,” she said sternly. “Have
you something to tell me? What is wrong?”

He
bit his lip and looked down at his feet, then at the stairs to his
right, then at the curved gateway before him, then down the stony
path to his left, then, finally, at her. “I think I've made a
dreadful mistake,” he said, “I'm
—
oh,
it's no use to be sorry, is it? I'm always sorry after, but then it's
too late, isn't it? Oh, I do wish Papa had sent me to school in
India. I never thought he was particularly sensible, and Mama did say
the climate would kill me, but for once Papa may have been right.
Except that maybe India wouldn't be far enough away, and I daresay
one school is much like the rest. But perhaps they're the only ones
who'd have me. Being so far away, you see, they may not have heard. I
assure you, the pig was for a scientific experiment, and how was I to
know that one mustn't place a lighted candle near
—”

“Percival,
you are babbling,” Esme said sharply. “Stop it this
instant.”

He
bit his lip and hugged the pouch tightly, apparently oblivious to its
stony contents, which were bound to leave bruises.

“You
are hurting yourself,” she snapped. “Put the curst bag
down.” She reached out to take it from him, but he spun away so
quickly that Esme lost her balance. Making a clumsy grab to pull her
up, Percival lost his own footing. They tumbled to the cobblestones
in a tangle of arms and legs, the bag slipping from his grasp and its
contents spilling about them.

Percival
was on his knees in an instant, scrambling to gather up his rocks.
Cursing under her breath, Esme started to

pull
herself up to a sitting position. She swore loudly, for something
hard and angular jabbed her bottom. She shifted away to snatch up the
offending object. Then she paused, staring at it.

A
tiny crowned head poked out of a ragged cloth wrapping. Percival gave
a low, anguished groan but remained kneeling where he was, his green
eyes fixed on the shrouded object in her hand. Esme swiftly unwound
the rest of the fabric.

“A
most unusual rock,” she said.

Percival
sat back on his heels.

She
studied the small, regal figure. “It looks like a chess piece.”

“Please,”
he whispered miserably. “Please don't tell.
Anybody.”

“You
tricked Lord Edenmont,” she said. “You told him you'd
given it to Jason, but you had stolen it yourself.”

“I
didn't
—
that
is
—”

“You
knew he needed money.”

“Everyone
knows that,” her cousin answered defensively. “Papa
bribed him to take me to Venice.”

“And
you bribed him to take you to Albania instead. Why?”

Percival
squirmed, his eyes darting anxiously about. “I can't tell you.
You'd never believe me anyhow.”

“Very
well.” Esme rose. “I shall go to Lord Edenmont and give
him this chess piece he wanted so badly.”