The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“It—it’s not yours to bribe him with.”

“I shall tell him it is. I shall say Jason gave it to me, and I asked you to guard it with your rocks. If you can tell lies, why shouldn’t I?”

Percival considered. Then his eyes narrowed to two nasty green slits. “If you so much as hint at it,” he warned, “I shall tell Lord Edenmont—”

“What, that it’s a falsehood? And who will he believe?”

“I shall tell him you made that horrid scene tonight to make him jealous.”

The accusation was merely a boy’s obnoxious taunt, yet heat rose in Esme’s face all the same. She had wanted to prove something. She’d wanted to show Varian that another man, as beautiful as himself, desired her. And this other man did not think her a lunatic, or a sarcastic know-it-all, or any of the other hateful names his lordship had called her.

Ismal had most obligingly accommodated her. He’d sounded so devotedly tender that she had almost believed he did love her. Until her father’s image flashed before her: shot in the back, denied the glory of a hero’s burial, his brave body battered against the cruel rocks of the torrent.

Percival studied her with frank curiosity. “You’re blushing,” he said. “Good heavens. Is it true? Is that what it was about? Really, girls are very strange. I’d not thought—”

The door crashed open, narrowly missing the guard, who hastily scrambled aside. As soon as Lord Edenmont entered, the guard slipped out.

Percival glanced from him to Esme, then yawned. “Good heavens, how late it is,” he said. He rubbed his eyes. “Such an interesting conversation, Cousin Esme. The time flew by, really it did.” He headed for the bedchamber stairs, oblivious to Lord Edenmont’s astonished gaze.

“Percival.”

“Sir?” Turning back to him, the boy yawned again.

“Am I to believe you are not remotely interested in what transpired between Ali and me?”

“I’m sure you had a most interesting discussion, sir, but I do believe I’ve had sufficient stimulation for one evening.”

His lordship turned to Esme. “What have you done to him? What insane rubbish have you been filling his head with?”

Percival bridled. “She’s not filled my head with anything. I should hardly listen to anything a silly girl had to say.”

“I, silly?” Esme bolted up from the sofa. “It is you who jabber nothing but nonsense. Trojans and white supper curse and—”

“White what?” Varian asked.

“Sepulchres,” Percival snapped. “Whited sepulchres. But it’s no use telling her. It’s no use telling her anything. She’s got about as much sense as a—as a fish!”

“I, at least, do not converse with rocks,” she retorted.

“I don’t talk to them!”

“Children,” Lord Edenmont chided. They ignored him.

“You do! You mutter under your breath, but it is talking all the same. This is sense? To talk to rocks?”

“I don’t, you horrid, horrid—you girl, you silly girl. I never—oh, what’s the use?” Percival shook his head. “Please, sir, may I go to bed now? I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

Lord Edenmont waved him off. Percival walked stiffly to the entryway, paused to stick his tongue out at Esme, then marched loudly out.

Esme stood glaring after him until he disappeared from sight. Then she glared at the ceiling, while he stomped about overhead. At last there was silence.

And a low chuckle behind her.

She swung around to glower at Lord Edenmont. His face was blank, but the corner of his wicked mouth twitched.

Esme didn’t want to look at his mouth. She didn’t want to look at any part of him. She’d thought Fate would at last be kind and spare her from ever having to see him again. But Fate was worse than unkind, and now that dreadful boy believed—

“White supper curse?” he said.

“Go to the devil!” she cried. “May a host of jackals rip out your entrails while your heart still beats. May you fall into black water and a thousand leeches feast upon you. May the mother of vermin fasten herself upon you and breed lice in your eyes and nose and—”

“Ah, an Albanian love song. And you composed it just for me, romantic creature that you are. Very well. I yield.” He opened his arms. “Come. You may cover my adorable face with kisses.”

Unfortunately, that was just what Esme wanted to do. She was tired and angry and frightened. In a kinder world, she might hide in his arms. In that kinder world, his invitation would not be cruel sarcasm, and she might let his burning kisses shut all else out. She might let herself drown in the hot, dark passion he’d shown her in Poshnja. He was beautiful and strong, and his splendid body would give her shelter…and release.

Only for a short while, true, but she’d have no other chance. No other man. Only Ismal, whom she hated with all her heart, the man she’d kill—then die for killing. What sort of revenge was that? He’d seem a martyr, the innocent victim of a mad female. No one believed him guilty.

Except Percival.

Who claimed Ismal was a traitor, and Risto the go-between who traveled to Italy for weapons for his master. In Berat, Percival had insisted he recognized Risto’s voice…had said the man spoke bad Italian and worse English. The recollection sent Esme’s head whirring like a spinning wheel, and all her consciousness fixed upon the thread she drew from it.

Risto did speak Italian. And English. Neither well, but enough to get by. How could Percival know that, when in Berat, and all through the journey, Risto had spoken only Albanian? There was only one way Percival could have known: the way he told her. God help her, how could she have been so unforgivably stupid?

A cold flood of dismay woke Esme from her trance and to the awareness that she was staring blankly at Varian. How long had she stood thus while her mind spun out its revelations?

He had lowered his arms and was watching her, his head tipped slightly to one side, his gray eyes perplexed…and sad? No, not sad. He hated her. She’d made her cousin hate her as well. They’d held out a life rope to her and she’d thrust it away. They’d leave her here to kill and die because she’d forced them to, because she’d been too obsessed with revenge to listen to anybody.

The back of her throat began to burn, and her chest hurt, making her breath come in hard, painful gasps. Her lower lip started to tremble uncontrollably. Oh, no. She would not cry. She never wept, and she’d rather be torn to pieces by wild boars than break down before this man. Her eyes were itching. Esme rubbed them hard.

“Don’t you dare,” Varian whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare cry.”

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.”