The Lion's Daughter (29 page)

Esme
bit her lip.

“Damnation.
You are going to be the death of me, Esme.” He swiftly closed
the distance between them, gathered her in his arms, and pressed her
face to his chest.

“I'm
sorry,” she gasped against his chest.

“Sorry.
Christ.”

He
was stroking her hair. Not very gently, but then, he had every reason
to dash her head against the wall, Esme thought miserably.

“I
know,” she said. “It's too late to be sorry. I'm not
afraid. I only wished
...
I wished to say it to you,
aloud.” She swallowed. The burning in her throat had subsided.
She would not break down now. She had herself in hand. She raised her
head.

Varian's
black lashes lowered to veil the expression in his eyes. He smiled
faintly, without warmth. “And what am I to believe you're sorry
for?” he softly inquired.

“All.
From the beginning. The terrible things I have said. But worse, the
terrible things I have done.”

“Ah,
well, you can't help it, can you? You're crazy
—
or
Albanian. Come to think of it, they're much the same. I really don't
understand how your father lived here twenty years and retained his
sanity. I lost all claim to mine in less than twenty
days.”

“I'm
sorry,” she said. “It is all my fault. I was very
confused. I understood nothing
...
until a moment ago.”

Varian
gave a heavy sigh, and his hands dropped to her shoulders. He stood
back, holding her at arm's length while he studied her face. “Esme
repentant. That is nearly as disconcerting a sight as Esme in a
frock. The combination is devastating. Perhaps I'd better sit down.”

He
released her, but did not sit down, only backed away to lean against
the door. He still looked at her in that studying way. Esme became
painfully aware of the silken gown she wore, which had made her feel
ridiculous before. Now she felt too female, terribly exposed. He
gazed at her as though she were some curious specimen in a cage. She
wanted to hide. Her feet carried her toward him instead.

“No!”
he warned.

Esme
stopped short and flushed.

“You
are not to use your arts on me, madam,” he said. “Unburden
your conscience if you will, but at a distance. Like Percival, I have
had quite enough
stimulation
for
one day, thank you.”

She
didn't blame him, not one bit, though it was so mortifying to be
ordered to keep away as if she carried a vile disease. But that
wasn't why. He was being civilized. He didn't want to be tempted to
hit her, or throttle her. Another man., goaded as he had been, would
have knocked her clear across the room the instant he walked through
the door, and she

would
not have blamed him. What an unspeakable harridan she'd been!
Detestable, stupid, ugly, rude, vicious. An animal.

But
she wasn't. She had some honor. She owed an apology. And the truth.
Not all, for she couldn't bear that. But some, at least.

She
folded her hands and directed her gaze to the carpet. Near her right
foot she saw a tiny colored maze of intertwined squares, vivid
against the maroon background. She fixed on it.

“I
lied to you,” she said, “Repeatedly. I exaggerated how
long it would take to repair the ship and understated the
difficulties in reaching Tepelena. Though I'd have gone alone if I
had to, I knew I would encounter fewer problems traveling with an
Englishman.”

“You
used me,” he said.

She
winced, “Yes.”

“You
might have used me more kindly.”

The
reproach made her look up guiltily. His eyes were dark, filled with
shadows.

“I
did not want you to like me,” she said, wringing her hands. “I
did not want to like you. That would make everything so much more
difficult for me
...
for what I had to do.”

“What
did you have to do?” he asked quietly.

His
dark gaze caught and held her, while her heart pumped crazily. Dear
heaven, why did he ask that? Didn't he believe the reason she'd given
him in Berat
—
that
she must wed Is-mal? Hadn't she feigned well enough a few hours ago?

“Be-because
of Is-Ismal,” she said.

“What
about him? What had you to do?”

It
didn't matter how gently he asked. There was only one way to
answer
—
with
the lie she had so carefully contrived. This man would abandon her
here. She'd made it impossible for him to do otherwise. She'd no need
to tell him the whole truth, to watch his expression harden into
revulsion, his soft voice chill with disgust. Yet her soul cried out
for truth, for it cried out to him, to release her, punish her
—
she
didn't know what she needed. All she knew at this moment was that she
was sick with despair, and the lie would surely kill her.

“I
had
...
I
had
...”
The
words stuck in her throat. She wasn't a coward, yet she was so
afraid. Of what? Losing him, when he'd been lost to her from the
start?

“Tell
me, Esme.”

She
closed her eyes. “I had to kill Ismal.” She said it
quickly, and though the words came out in a strained whisper, it was
not so fast or so low he couldn't hear it. The sound was too loud in
her own ears. She felt cold and ashamed, though to seek revenge was
no shame. That, however, he couldn't understand. He'd see her as a
cold-blooded monster who mindlessly pursued a man all believed
innocent
—
a
man they all believed loved her and wanted desperately to wed her.
Oh, why had she said those terrible words?

“Little
fool.” His voice, too, was low, but it lashed her. “Reckless,
passionate little fool.”

“Varian
—”

“
Hajde,”
he said.

Her
gaze snapped to him. He held out his hand.
“Hajde,”
he repeated.

Her
heart slammed hard against her chest, and her whole frame shuddered
in response. But his low, beckoning voice called to her in her own
tongue, and body and spirit answered at once, though tremblingly.
Slowly, Esme moved to him and put her hand in his. His long fingers
closed over hers, and he drew her nearer. Capturing her other hand,
he tugged until she stood intimately close, her silken skirt brushing
his trousers. Her breath came in short, strained gasps.

“You
can't kill him, Esme,” he said, “and I can't kill him for
you.”

Her
heart seemed to splinter into a thousand shards. “Oh, Varian.”
She pulled free of his hands, threw her arms about him, and buried
her face in the warmth of his coat. “Don't hate me,” she
pleaded. “Please don't hate me.”

Strong
arms wrapped round her, crushing her against his hard body. He
pressed his mouth to her neck for one long, achingly warm moment.
Then he lifted her up and carried her to the
sofa,
where he gathered her onto his lap.
“Hate you. Oh, yes,” he growled. Then his mouth sank down
upon hers.

She
had expected rage and revulsion, but his kiss was shat-teringly
tender, for all its heat. She wept within at its sweetness, just as
she wept for the heart he had stolen from her so easily. She'd been a
fool to imagine she could keep it from him, just as she'd been a fool
about everything else.

When
he raised his head at last, Esme hid her face against his shoulder.
His fingers played in her hair, then slipped down to caress her
breast, lightly, barely touching the thin silk. Even under this
feather touch, her flesh stirred in aching answer. She shivered. His
hand moved to her hip, only to rest there, yet its warmth washed
through her belly.

“Ah,
Esme, what's to be done with you?”

His
voice, was as gentle as his touch, and she answered helplessly, the
way her body had. “Don't leave me.” It was but a tiny,
muffled cry against his coat, yet too audible in the room's
stillness.

A
long silence.

“You're
upset,” he said at last, “and I am taking advantage. Gad,
what a blackhearted swine I am
—
and
the boy upstairs.” He kissed the top of her head. “Thank
you for telling me the truth. I wish
...
I wish I were the sort of man you
could have told it to sooner. 'My lord,' you'd have said, 'I must
avenge my father's murder. Would you be kind enough to offer me your
protection en route?'
“

Esme
peeked up doubtfully at him from her hiding place. “And what
would you have answered?”

He
smiled. “I should not have answered, but leapt immediately upon
my white charger and gone out to slay the evil prince. If I were that
other man. But I'm not. I'm Edenmont, lazy, selfish, and utterly
useless. I can do nothing but take you away.”

This
was more than Esme could bear. He not only seemed to understand and
would not abandon her, but also blamed himself. “You are none
of those things,” she said. She sat up fully, her eyes filled
with all the admiration and gratitude she felt. “You tried to
do what was right
—
what
everyone knew was right, except me. This night Ismal offered you an
immense bribe to abandon me, yet you refused it.”

He
shook his head, and one thick black lock shook loose to dangle
rakishly at his eyebrow. “Don't make me out to be noble, Esme.
I'm not. Just stubborn, and exceedingly selfish. Percival may be
furious with you at the moment, but he's made up his mind you're
leaving with him. If you don't, he'll plague me to death. In any
case, Ali has made his position very clear: you're leaving tomorrow
for Corfu, one way or another. If I chose not to take you, he said
he'd send you with an army. I agreed to take you, though I warned I
might need the army to accomplish the feat. He expressed his
sympathy. He said you reminded him of his
mother.”

“Ali?”
This was incomprehensible. “He
wants
me gone
—
yet he let Ismal—”

“Make
his touching speech, just as he let me make an ass of myself. Ali
Pasha has a peculiar sense of humor
—
and
a terrifying gift for judging character.” While he spoke,
Varian absently stroked her hair. “For the first time, I could
understand why your father stayed to work for him. The Vizier is half
mad, a sadistic fiend by all accounts, yet he has Satan's own gift
for manipulation. And he knows what he's about.”

He
fell silent, while his long fingers continued their soothing caress,
drawing the tension from her scalp, from her very being.

“I'm
sorry about your father,” he said after a moment. “It's
clear you loved him very much. I wish I could have met him. I wish he
were here for you
—
instead
of a numskull knave of a lord and a confused twelve-year-old boy.”

Esme
forced her voice past the burning obstruction in her throat. “You
are not a numskull,” she said, “and Percival is much less
confused than I have been. You have both been far kinder than I
deserve, but I shall try to make it up, I promise. I shall be so
obedient and good all the way to Corfu that you will not recognize
me.”

“By
heaven, you do go to extremes, don't you?” He smiled.

So
sweet that smile was, warm as the sun. When he looked so, he could
make a dying weed blossom into brilliant blooms. His touch could do
the same. In the shelter of his arms, her tormented brain had
quieted.

“I
want
to
go with you,” she blurted out. “I would go anywhere you
say, Varian. This night I thought you'd leave me. I thought you would
go from my life
—
and
worse, that we would part in misunderstanding and anger and lies.
Instead, you were patient and helped me unburden my heart. Now it is
filled with gratitude. Those are merely words, but I shall prove it.
Only wait and see.” She swallowed. “No wonder all the
women love you.”

Varian
stared at her most oddly, his beautiful eyes again filled with
shadows, like shifting smoke. Then he scooped her up and set her on
her feet before him. “I'm no good at resisting temptation,”
he said. “Go to bed, please, before the strain of everlasting
kindness and nobility proves too much for me.”

Esme
would have preferred to remain in his lap. During their journey, he
had kissed and caressed her in lust. He'd once held her nearly naked
in his arms and set her aflame. Never before, however, had he touched
her in affection or spoken directly to her heart. Never before had
she felt so close to him. She wanted to stay as close as she could.