The Lion's Daughter (27 page)

Varian
returned the young man's gracious greeting with excruciating
courtesy, his face unreadable, his insides churning with hatred and
blind, mindless jealousy.

He
spent the next quarter hour trying to maintain his composure, trying
to think rationally, past the roiling rage in his mind. But thinking
was impossible. He was too aware of the richly garbed bodies on
either side of him, too aware of their voices, their scents: one
light and teasingly feminine; the other darker, exotic, and clearly
masculine. Through the rustle of silk, Varian could scarcely make
sense of the conversation about him.

He
heard Ali's voice rising in inquiry
...
Perci val 's,
answering stiffly
at first, then with increasing assurance until he was chatting
eagerly
...
and
between them, smoothly interpreting, Esme's voice, low and soothing
as a cool stream on a sultry day.

Then
Ismal spoke, and Ali answered at length.

Esme
touched Varian's arm, and the contact jerked him out of the haze so
abruptly that he blinked. His companions came into sharp focus. They
were all watching him.

“Ali
gives Ismal permission to address you directly,” she said. “You
are to stand in the place of Percival's father, the head of my
English family, and speak on our behalf. Ali says my cousin is
intelligent, but such matters cannot be resolved by children and
women.” She met Varian's puzzled gaze for one tense moment, and
he read in her eyes what she wouldn't add aloud: Remember your
promise.

Varian
stiffly turned his attention to Ismal, whose expression grew solemn.

“I'll
not tax your patience with endless roundabout speeches, my lord,”
said the golden prince. “I admit freely it was my own followers
who so villainously sought to steal the Red Lion's daughter, but I
tell you as well that I never commanded it. Never. I have denounced
those who ordered the deed, and will happily preside over their
lackeys' executions when they are found.”

Percival
made a queer, choked sound, but Ismal appeared not to notice.

“It
is also claimed and this is cruelly unjust
—
that
I ordered the Red Lion's death. This is a vile lie, which all
reasoning men recognize. Why should I cut down the sire of the girl I
seek as my bride?” His feline blue gaze flickered to Esme, then
back.

Varian
felt his fingers curling tightly against his palms. He settled them
back upon his knees, “It's not the customary way of wooing,”
he said. “At least not in England.”

Ismal's
mouth curved with amusement. He'd probably broken a thousand hearts
with that lazy cat smile.

“You
please to be droll, my lord,” said the golden prince. “Even
in Albania, it is a most irregular way to go about winning a girl's
heart.”

Wonderful.
A wit, in addition to everything else.

“I'd
not kill Esme's father, even were he my worst enemy, for she loved
him and must look upon his murderer with vengeful hate.”

When
Esme translated this for Ali, he made a jovial comment.

Ismal's
smile widened. “Ali remarks that vengeful wives are
uncomfortable creatures to have about. He has no doubt the little
warrior would slit my throat if she believed me guilty. Such a state
of mind in a bride is poor encouragement to a groom's ardor.”

Varian
looked at Esme. She sat composedly beside him, her hands folded, her
eyes demurely downcast while she translated for Ali as though they
discussed agriculture, rather than her father's murder and her own
future.

Vengeful
hate. Slit his throat.

No.

She
wouldn't.

The
hairs on the back of Varian's neck bristled all the same.

He
glanced at Ali, unaware of the silent question he asked until he saw
the Vizier's answer, a barely perceptible motion of his head. Side to
side:
Yes.
Was
it possible? Did the genial old fiend suspect what he did
—
and
worse, know the answer?

Varian
returned Ismal's smile with one equally disarming. “You appear
far too intelligent to do such a foolish thing,” he said. “Nor
can I believe a man the Almighty has so highly favored need take such
desperate measures to secure a woman.”

Ismal
calmly accepted this rubbish, his eyes as trusting as a babe's.

“Frankly,
though, I can't understand why you'd want her at all,” Varian
went on blandly. “You appear not the least deluded regarding
her
violent
character.”

The
green silk gown rustled as Esme shifted her position. She muttered
something, too low for Varian to catch, then briskly translated
Varian's remarks for Ali, who chuckled.

“I
have no taste for a docile wife,” Ismal said. “The little
warrior is fierce and brave, and stirs my blood as no other woman
can. So it has been since we were children. She knows. She knows how
she has tormented me.” He shot her a soulful look, but Esme
kept her attention upon her hands.

So
demurely feminine. So sweetly shy under her would-be lover's
passionate gaze
...
while she was no doubt reviewing
in her twisted little mind how she'd kill him.

“Four
years ago,” Ismal went on, “when she was fourteen, I
begged her father for her hand in marriage. He said she was too
young, and I must wait.”

Four
years ago
—
when
she was
fourteen!
Then
it all came back, stunningly clear. She had told Varian of her life—a
year in
Durrës,
five in Shkodra, two in Berat,
and so on and so on. Her life.
All
eighteen bloody years of it.
Why the
devil had he never simply asked? Why had he tortured himself all this
while when a simple question would have relieved him—of that
particular guilt at least.

But
Varian knew why. He'd been afraid he'd learn she was even younger
than he'd guessed.

“Yes,
Jason would say that,” Varian agreed composedly. “English
girls mature more slowly, I believe, than those in other parts of the
world. Esme herself admitted she was slower than most.”

“She
is no longer too young, my lord. I have wanted her many years. Now,
because she is alone, I feel responsible for her as well. When my
noble cousin told me you were coming to Tepelena, I rejoiced, for I
would have an opportunity to make amends for all the insults she and
her English friends suffered that evil day in
Durrës.
I might try, at least in part, to
wipe away my shame and sorrow for all that has happened in my name.”

Ismal's
approach to repentance was briskly business-like. He would pay two
hundred English pounds in bride-price to Esme's uncle. This was about
twenty times the going rate, Esme coolly explained, women being
accounted, generally, less valuable than horses. Fines must be paid
as well, it turned out: five hundred each to Varian and Percival for
the insults to their persons in
Durrës
and five hundred to Ali for the
insult to his authority. In addition, Ismal would give Ali and Varian
each an Arabian stallion, and Percival a colt of equally good blood.

Lastly,
Ismal took up a jewel-encrusted silver box that lay near Ali's divan.

'These
baubles I give to my intended bride, in token of our betrothal.”

He
handed Varian the box. The “baubles” consisted of
emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and other such gimcracks.

Varian
gave them one bored glance and Ismal another.

“Naturally,
my bride will receive proper jewels when we are wed,” the
golden prince said. There was a faint note of impatience in his tone.

“Naturally.”
Proper jewels. Oh, yes. Diamonds, of course, and miles of those gold
coin necklaces and hair adornments Byron had described. Hundreds of
silken gowns, and slippers embroidered with gold and silver. Esme
would never lift a finger again all the rest of her life. Her brown,
strong hands would grow as soft and white as the rest of her. She'd
be pampered, her every whim a command. She'd dine on rare delicacies,
and her slight form would blossom into lush womanhood.

If
she lived that long.

Which
she wouldn't if she tried to kill her husband. But she couldn't be
planning that. Varian tried to persuade himself. His suspicion,
surely, was nothing more than feverish fancy, sparked by jealous
delirium.

She
is not right in the head.

She
was not in her right mind.

If
Percival and Petro had diagnosed accurately, the only sensible thing
to do was get clear of her, as far away as possible, as fast as
possible. Percival could well do without a homicidal lunatic for a
cousin. England could well do without her as a subject. Let Albania
deal with her.

The
room was silent, waiting. Ali's expression was inscrutable.
Percival's countenance was pale, his green eyes wide and anxious. The
golden prince watched Esme. Varian wondered what he saw there, but
refused to look at her.

He
closed the cover of the jewel box. “A most generous
reparation,” he said calmly. “I shall be honored to
convey your
request
to
her uncle.”

Ismal's
guileless expression never faltered. He was good at this, very good,
Varian thought, or else very much in earnest. He ruthlessly crushed
the doubt. He was in no state to consider consequences, not those,
not now.

“I
beg your pardon,” Ismal said. “My English has failed me.
I do not comprehend.”

“I
shall be happy to communicate your proposal to the head of Esme's
English family,” Varian clarified, “when I take her to
him.”

Silence.

Ali
looked to Esme, but no translation was forthcoming.

He
directed a question at Ismal, who feigned incomprehension.

It
was left to Varian to translate in his wretched schoolboy Greek and
explain he'd no right to dispose of a female to whom he was
unrelated. If he did so without Sir Gerald's written consent, Varian
claimed, he might be charged with abduction and slave trading, both
grave offenses under English law.

“But
she is not English.” Ismal's voice was angelically patient.
“She is Albanian, his highness' subject.”

“She
most certainly is not!” Percival burst out.

All
eyes turned to him. He reddened. “I do beg your pardon. I don't
mean to be impolite, but unless I've misunderstood dreadfully, it
can't possibly be so.”

“Percival,
if you don't mind
—”

“But,
sir—”

“
Dëgjoni!”
Ali
ordered.
“Dëgjoni
djali.”

“We
are to listen to the boy,” Ismal said, smiling faintly. “It
is my royal cousin's whim.”

Ali
patted the boy on die shoulder. “You. Speak.”

Percival
eyed him nervously. “Thank you, sir.” His frightened
glance darted to Ismal, men Esme, and settled at last on Varian, who
gave a curt nod.

Percival
drew a steadying breath. “The mother's side doesn't count,”
he said. “Mustafa explained it to me. It's as though her
bloodline doesn't exist. Therefore, Cousin Esme is British, not
Albanian. There can't be any doubt about that, in any case. When
Uncle Jason got married, he went to all the trouble of going to Italy
and finding an Anglican clergyman and getting it done properly. I
know, because he kept all his private papers with his banker in
Venice. He had copies made for Mama to send to England, and I saw
them all: the marriage lines, and papers for Esme's birth in
1800,
and Uncle Jason's will. He said
he didn't want any legal problems for Esme. He said
—”

“It
is nonsense!” Esme cried. “The child makes it all up. My
parents were wed in Janina, not Italy.”

“They
had an Albanian ceremony in Janina,” Percival said, “but
they were married again with English rites in Italy.”

“No!”

Varian
looked at her. “So you know a bit about English law, do you?”

“Aye,
and I am a bastard by that law,” she spat out. “Percival
tells this falsehood to persuade everyone I am not. But I am not
British. I'm no subject of your lunatic king!”

“It
makes no matter, my heart,” Ismal said soothingly. “Your
father was disowned by his family, and he became an Albanian. You are
Albanian.” He turned to Varian, whose jaw ached with the effort
to maintain his mask of composure.

“You
know her kin do not want her,” Ismal went on, his silky voice
reproachful now. “Why do you wish to take her to an uncle who
will only discard her, as he discarded his own brother? Why make her
suffer such shame, when she will only be returned to me in the end?
You know it is so, my lord. All Albania knows it is so.”