The Lion's Daughter (8 page)

Esme
rarely thought about cold, was accustomed to accept and ignore it.
Yet the man was unwell and the hut chilly and damp. His body sought
warmth, that was all. She told herself there was no harm, and closed
her eyes. For all her brave resolutions, she felt miserably alone,
and sorrow made her cold within. To be held so was comforting.

She
was just drifting to sleep when he murmured unintelligibly, and his
hand slid up from her waist, over her shirt, and closed over her
small breast.

Blind
panic shot through her. She clawed at the hand and kicked wildly as
she wriggled to get free.

“What
the—”

His
hand clamped round her wrist, and in the next instant, Esme found
herself flat on her back, the Englishman crouched over her. When she
tried to scramble away, he dropped on top of her, pinned her hands to
the ground on either side of her, and thrust his legs between hers
before she could jam her knee into his groin.

For
a moment, Esme was too stunned to move. Never in her life had any
adversary gained such speedy control. She'd thought this man effete,
a lazy weakling. But he was terrify-ingly quick
—
and
disconcertingly efficient. Still, he was panting, his curses coming
in growling gasps. The oaths didn't bother her. She knew curses in
five languages. What bothered her was the hard weight of his rigid
body and the numbing sensation of helplessness. But not for long, she
told herself. He was injured, after all, and she was not.

“English
swine,”
she
growled, kicking angrily at his legs. Her flailing foot struck Petro,
who'd been snoring obliviously on the other side of her. He bolted up
in terror.

“Help!
Help!” he screamed in Greek, as he scrabbled wildly at the
blankets. “Robbers! Murder!”

“Shut
up, you idiot,” the Englishman snapped. “Light the
lantern. It's not robbers, dammit. It's a girl!”

IT
TOOK PETRO forever to light the lantern—which stank to high
heaven. In that time, Varian had relieved the little fiend of his
weight, and her headdress. Not that he needed to examine her more
closely. He recognized a female body when he felt one, and he'd fully
awakened to find his hand curled over a very small, very firm, but
unmistakably feminine breast. He'd dreamt he was sleeping with a
woman, and woke to find that he was. A girl, he silently amended, his
gray gaze upon the shining mass of dark red hair. A girl who'd
probably reached puberty about the day before yesterday.

She
was sitting cross-legged, glaring at him. Varian's hands itched to
spank her. He didn't like being made a fool of. He liked still less
narrowly escaping murder twice in forty-eight hours. A moment's delay
and he'd have found her knife in his ribs. Yet furious as Varian was,
he was not completely insensitive. If she wasn't Jason's son, she was
surely his daughter. Her name was Esme, a Saxon name, and there was
no denying her uncanny resemblance to Percival. All of which

meant
that she'd just lost her father, which was reason enough to be
overwrought. Furthermore, the liberties he'd unconsciously taken with
her young body must have terrified her.

“I'm
sorry I was so
...
violent,” he said tightly.
“But you took me by surprise, and I thought I was being
attacked.”

The
green glare changed to an expression of pure scorn.
“You?
It was not my hands roaming where
they had no place to be.”

“I
was
asleepl”
he
snapped defensively. “How the devil was I to know where my
hands were?”

“So
it is,” Petro eagerly agreed. “Why should he caress one
he thought a boy? The master does not care for boys. So everyone
knows
—”

“I
wasn't
caressing
her,
damn you. I was asleep and
—”

“You
put your hand on my breast!” she accused. “You think I am
a concubine, to make no objection? I only tried to get away
—
and
you act as though I tried to murder you. And then it is not enough to
subdue me in that shameful way, but you must take off my clothes.”

“I
took your knife, so you wouldn't kill me, and I took off your
hat
—
or
whatever that medieval monstrosity is,” he returned, tossing
the woolen rag to her.

“It
does not matter what it is. You had no right. Had I menfolk by,
they'd have killed you for the insult.”

She
jammed the ugly woolen helmet onto her head and shoved her thick hair
up inside it. Varian saw her hands were shaking. He'd frightened her
badly. The poor child must have thought he'd meant to rape her.

“I
beg your pardon,” he said. “I'm not altogether rational
when I'm awakened suddenly. But you did deceive me regarding your
gender. It was only natural to imagine you were up to some dangerous
trick. Theft, murder
—
how
was I to know?”

“So
it is,” Petro said. “So I thought myself. Foolish, very
foolish,” he chided, “for a little girl to make herself
like a boy. And sinful to tell lies.”

“How
can you be so ignorant?” she exclaimed. “There is a man
after me whose accomplices seek a red-haired girl
—
and
will again seek me when they learn my cousin is a boy. The task isn't
difficult. How many red-haired Albanians do you think there are?”
she demanded. “I've never heard of any but me.”

She
turned her accusing gaze to Varian, who was growing acutely
uncomfortable. “It is not the best disguise, I know, but Bajo
and I did not plan to linger about long enough to allow close
scrutiny,” she went on. “Had the men not spied my cousin,
they might have turned away to look elsewhere. And I might have
escaped.”

Varian
could hardly argue with that. It was his fault she'd not been able to
escape, his fault Percival was in the hands of perverts.

“I
agree I'm responsible for this whole ghastly mess,” he said.
“Considering how stupidly I've behaved, I oughtn't be surprised
at your reluctance to trust me with your secret.”

This
seemed to placate her somewhat, for she answered less belligerently.
“I thought we would all be safer if you did not know. You might
treat me differently, or accidentally say something
—
and
others might notice, and I would be discovered.”

That,
too, made sense. For all her youth, she had a level head on her
shoulders. Varian's mouth eased into a rueful smile.

“Percival
said his uncle was not only brave, but astute,” he said. “It
would appear you've inherited those qualities as well as his looks.”

The
defiance faded from her intense green eyes, and sorrow clouded them.

“I
was son and daughter to Jason.” Her voice was a shade unsteady.
“He taught me all I know. Four languages I speak well, and
Turkish enough to curse.” She swallowed. “I am an
excellent marksman, both with rifle and blade. I can take care of
myself
—
and
both of you as well. You will find there's no need to treat me
differently, just because I'm a female.”

Varian
must have looked exceedingly doubtful
—
how
could he not, gazing at this elfin creature with her great green
eyes?
—
because
she raised her chin and stiffened her posture. “I am not a weak
and nervous female, to make a great fuss about a small mistake. I
shall forget the insult to my person and take you to Tepelena
—
if
you will forget my small offense in deceiving you.”

“That's
very
...
generous
of you,” Varian said, “but
—”

“There's
nothing to fear,” she interrupted impatiently. “I am a
fighter, with the scars to prove it. There,” she said, pointing
to her arm. “And there.” She slapped her thigh. “But
the men who shot me are dead. 'Little warrior' my people call me. You
can ask in Rrogozhina
—
anywhere
—
and
they'll tell you.”

“Shot?”
Varian repeated. A chill trickled down his neck.

“Oh,
yes.” She pushed up her sleeve to show the scar. Her slim arm
was smooth and delicate, much whiter than her strong, sun-bronzed
hands.

“Don't,”
he said sharply. “I believe you.” Lord, what sort of
swine would put a bullet into that fragile wisp of a body? He felt
ill.

“Does
your head trouble you,
efendi?
”
she asked, concerned. “Your
face has gone white. Perhaps you should lie down.”

Dizzy
with the effort to make sense of her, of everything, Varian lay down
willingly. No use trying to reason with her tonight. Her mind was
disordered by distress. Even her solici-tousness bordered on panic.

Still,
it was touching the way the girl tucked him in, as though he were a
feeble child. She must have decided he was about as dangerous as one,
too, for she resumed her place beside him and ordered Petro to move
to the other side, that his lordship might share their warmth.

She
continued solicitous the following morning until, seeing her packing
to travel, Varian gently pointed out that they weren't going
anywhere.

Her
face hardened to stone. “Because you do not trust a female to
guide you?”

“A
young girl,” he corrected. “It's not you I mistrust,
but—”

She
didn't wait to hear more, simply took up her bags and marched from
the hut. Despite Petro's shrieks of panic, Varian was tempted to let
her go. The alternative, he was certain, was to tie her down.

The
trouble was, letting her go off alone was tantamount to murder
—
after
she and her friends had saved his life. Plague take her. Varian
gritted his teeth and stormed out after her.

Chapter
4

ALPS
MOUTH WOULD PROBABLY WATER WHEN he saw
this
one, Esme reflected as they neared
Rrogozhina two days later. Though the Vizier's court boasted some of
the most beautiful youths in the Ottoman Empire, the English lord
would make them look like trolls. Tall and well-formed, he carried
himself with all the arrogant assurance of a sultan, even while they
trudged through slimy marshland, the torrents beating relentlessly at
them. His insolence was bound to win respect, for in these realms the
meek inherited only abuse. His looks, furthermore, would surely make
more than one courtier weep.

His
skin was as fair and smooth as a pampered concubine's, yet his beauty
was purely masculine
—
an
irresistible combination to many men. But they'd yearn in vain.

The
English lord, Petro had told her, was addicted to women. Though the
man's licentiousness was common knowledge, the Italian women had
flocked to him like flies to manure. Of course, the gossiping Petro
had boasted, the lord selected only the most beautiful and
sophisticated of those who so shamelessly offered themselves to him.

The
dragoman had shared this information while his master slept. If Esme
meant to travel with them, she must help keep an eye on the master,
Petro warned, lest he make advances to virtuous Albanian women and
get them all embroiled in a blood feud.

“He'll
hardly find the other sort on the way to Tepelena,” Esme had
answered. “We're not likely to meet up with courtesans in these
parts. Just tell him he must wait. Ali will give him as many as he
likes.”

“No,
you
must
tell him, for he never listens to me. He says he cannot understand my
English. You will tell him, and explain so cleverly, as you did the
other night. Never have I seen him so angry. I thought he would beat
you. But you scold and he only smiles and listens.”

The
Englishman was not smiling now. His gray eyes were fixed on the
humble village ahead, and his face had set into taut lines.

“Rrogozhina,”
she said. “I told you we would reach it well before dark.”

“You
said it was an important town. I count six houses
—
or
hovels. It's hard to tell where the mud leaves off and architecture
begins.”

“I
told you the site marked an important
crossroads”
she said. 'Two branches of the
ancient Romans' Via Egnatia meet here, one from Apollonia and one
from
Durrès.”

“Then
the Romans have fallen sadly behind in upkeep. Even had Caesar
Augustus possessed the visionary powers of the god he claimed to be,
I would defy him to discern so much as a path, let alone two great
roads in this godforsaken sea of mud. For two days we've crawled
through it. Two days to cover twenty miles
—
to
reach a cluster of muddy little huts which, as far as I can see, were
abandoned by all human inhabitants about six centuries ago.”