The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“Oh, yes. Very simple. A cliche, actually, though I’m mortified to admit it. I am a stupid, lazy moth, fluttering about aimlessly. You are a little firebrand, constantly bursting into flame. The stupid moth catches sight of the bright, lovely flame, and without a thought for consequences—though he’s old enough to know better—rushes right at it. Then he gets his wings singed and, like the mindless imbecile he is, berates the flame.”

Esme mulled this over, taking up the cards, shuffling them, putting them down again. Watching her deft hands, Varian recalled her tentative touch upon his sleeve. No, he mustn’t think of that, or his mind would turn again to the rest. He wanted peace, the truce he’d sought, because he wanted to remain with her this night, honorably.

“I’m not a good man,” he said. “My character is odiously weak. If there’s a wrong done, it’s more than likely I’ve done it quite on my own. I’m selfish and thoughtless. I’ve always been. If not, I should never have brought Percival here.”

“Why did you bring him, efendi?”

Varian stared at the cards. He still hadn’t told her. He’d neatly avoided it, unwilling to face her withering ridicule. For a chess piece, a toy? He could hear her say it, hear the contempt in her low voice.

“We came to get a chess piece,” he said. Instantly heat flooded his face. He—Edenmont—was blushing. Well, he ought to. As he forced himself to meet her gaze, he saw her eyes widen. Then, of all things, a smile.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I am very sorry, Varian Shenjt Gjergj, that your mother dropped you upon your head so many times.”

“It wasn’t entirely my doing,” he said. “Your cousin has a fiendish knack for making the most outrageous matters seem perfectly reasonable.”

“He is twelve years old.” She shuffled the cards.

“He is not. He’s fifty if he’s a day.”

She placed the cards before him. “Cut.”

“Do you mean to tell my fortune?”

“No. I mean to beat you at vingt-et-un, my lord, while you tell me of this chess piece.”

Though Esme beat his lordship only once, they passed the night peaceably enough, and it was very late when he summoned Petro at last. Despite the earlier threat of horsewhipping, the dragoman entered none too steadily.

His master, however, only uttered a few sharp words before giving up. “He’s no better than I at tolerating hardship,” he muttered. “Liquor is the only comfort he has at present. Why shouldn’t he get drunk? I wish I could.”

Esme noticed that he made his bed as far from hers as the tent’s confines would permit. That was best, she told herself. If his lordship felt a man’s need, he might well wish to ease it with whatever was at hand, even herself. This was one of the ways men differed from women, Jason had said, even those of otherwise good character. It was a demon many men seemed to possess.

This man may have compared her to a lovely flame and himself to a helpless moth, Esme reflected, but that was his need speaking.

“When lust takes hold of a man,” Jason had warned, “he’ll say anything, do anything, and there are men who can seduce with words only. Sometimes guile can be as dangerous as force. Properly armed and prepared, you’ve a chance of eluding an attacker. Even you, small as you are, might fight him off successfully, as I’ve taught you. But what will you do, little warrior, when a man sighs and tells you you’re breaking his heart?”

That was too ludicrous to contemplate.

“I shall laugh,” she had answered confidently.

“That may anger him.”

“Then he will attack, and I shall be prepared.”

Naive. Abominably so. This man had kissed her, and she hadn’t raised a hand against him. In his man’s heat, he’d spoken of desire, and in the pit of her belly, a woman’s heat had throbbed in answer.

It was best he slept far from her.

Besides, Esme needed to think about what the baron had revealed. The business of the black queen baffled her. If her cousin had given Jason the chess piece, why hadn’t her father mentioned it? Jason had shown her his mother’s curt note and the kinder one to Esme from his sister-in-law. Why should he keep the chess piece a secret? That made no sense. Percival must be mistaken, and the English lord had made a grave error of judgment, to travel to Albania on a boy’s mere say-so.

Still, Lord Edenmont did have an understandable motive. He was penniless, he’d reminded her, and in Italy he could live on a thousand pounds for many months.

“And then?” she’d asked.

“Oh, I would worry about ‘then’ when it became ‘now.’ “

Esme looked into his future, and worried for him now.

They might have passed the next day peaceably as well, had Lord Edenmont not made another trip to the river in the morning. When he returned, his hair in shiny damp waves, Esme was so furious that for perhaps the first time in her life she was beyond speech. She simply glared at him and stalked away. They rode toward Poshnja in rigid silence.

They reached the town just after noon. They planned to stay the evening, so that his lordship might manage a hot—or at least warm—bath to soothe his fastidious soul, while they replenished their supplies.

Only a small party greeted them this time, which was odd. Equally intriguing was the agitation Esme sensed in the village. She quickly dismounted, and collared a boy who was gawking at Lord Edenmont as though he’d ridden direct from the moon.

“What’s happened?” she asked. “Where are all the men?”

The boy came out of his daze long enough to explain that Poshnja was battling bandits. In broad day, just before the English lord’s party arrived, a band of men had swept down and relieved the villagers of some livestock and a great deal of grain. They’d even stolen some loaves of bread which had been left upon a ledge to cool.

Esme released the boy and glanced about her. Agimi and some others of the escort were talking excitedly with an old man. His lordship, though, didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy glaring at Petro, whose interpretive skills were evidently failing to please. Esme perceived how the muscles of his chiseled aristocratic countenance tightened and hardened with vexation as he turned his head, looking for her.

When he located her at last, he looked at her for a long moment, then smiled and raised his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. Her mouth wanted to return the smile. Her pride wouldn’t let it. Chin aloft, Esme went to him, to translate their host’s welcoming speech and Lord Edenmont’s gracious response.

All this time, their Albanian guards were conducting business of their own. While Hasan, the village elder, led his lordship indoors for the obligatory pampering and cosseting, half of Lord Edenmont’s men were leaping back upon their mounts.

Well, one could hardly expect them to sit idly about, drinking kafe and smoking their pipes, while thieves took the food from their countrymen’s mouths. So Esme explained when she gave Lord Edenmont the news…half an hour later, when she felt certain the men were well away.

“You saw them go an

d didn’t tell me?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “I know you’re not speaking to me, but you might have informed me of that, at least.”

“I could hardly tell you in the midst of Hasan’s greetings,” Esme answered as their hostess set down a tray before him. “Besides, you could not have stopped them.”

“If they were doing what they believed was their duty, I wouldn’t wish to stop them,” he said. “I only wish I might be informed—that someone might make at least a pretense of consulting me.”

“What sort of sense would they expect from a man who bathes in a freezing river, not once but twice in six hours?”

“I saw Petro pick a louse from his head. What would you have done?”

“I should have thrown Petro into the river.”

He glared at her, then laughed. When Hasan looked inquiringly at her, Esme explained that the English lord laughed with pleasure to see so many kind faces and so much good food.

The men returned several hours later, while Varian was shaving—with blessedly hot water. It was Petro, not Esme, who brought the news. Esme had not yet forgiven him for this morning’s ice bath. Well, she didn’t understand, thank heaven. Otherwise, she’d probably drown him herself.

Varian squinted into his small shaving glass. What he wouldn’t give for a proper mirror, that he might discern more than a square inch of skin at a time. He tried to recall whether there had been any looking glasses in the houses he’d visited. Perhaps these were rare in the villages. He wondered if Esme had ever seen her own countenance, or merely murky reflections in a pond or a bucket.

“Did they capture the thieves?” he asked.

“One they killed,” Petro answered. “Two others were shot, but escaped. They have brought back the animals and the grain. But the bread is gone, and Agimi’s arm must be cut off.”

“What?” Varian turned so quickly, he nearly sliced off his ear.

“The bullet went deep, and at a strange angle, and did not come out the other side.”

“He was shot?” Varian threw down his razor. “Damn. I knew this would happen. Where is he? Have they summoned a doctor?”