The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

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.

But she’d promised to be good, hadn’t she? He’d told her to go to bed, and so she would. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

He gave a short laugh. “Where I want you to sleep is not the question. You’d best share Percival’s room. Petro is out with his cronies, drinking himself to stupefaction. We’ll probably find him sprawled in the courtyard tomorrow.”

He glanced at the sofa, and his lip curled. “I shall make my bed here. It’s a great deal softer than what I’ve become accustomed to.”

“I shall bring you blankets,” Esme said dutifully.

“Thank you, but I am quite warm. My thoughts shall keep me so, curse them. Good night, little warrior.”

She gave him a hasty kiss on the cheek, but drew away quickly, so she’d not be tempted to seek more. “Nate’n e mire, Varian Shenjt Gjergj,” she whispered. I love you, her grateful heart added.

Chapter Seventeen

Two hours later, Esme was creeping through the quiet darkness of the harem.

Percival had been sound asleep when she’d reached the bedchamber. She’d had to wait, though, until Lord Edenmont was asleep as well. She’d sat listening at the top of the stairs until the restless rustling below had ceased and a light snoring assured her Varian had at last succumbed.

Then she had climbed out the window, made her way to the gallery, and hurried on to the harem. The sleepy guards at the entrance had let her pass without question. When, however, she reached the small doorway leading to the passage she sought—the one Jason had described to her—the mound of blubber nodding there suddenly jerked full awake to raise hissing objection.

“Ali has sent for me,” she hissed back. “You’d best let me pass or both our heads shall be offered to his highness on array.”

“I had no such message,” the eunuch said. “How do I know you do not go to assassinate him?”

“I, the Red Lion’s daughter? Even if I went on such an errand, with what weapon would I dispatch him? Think you I swallowed a sword and mean to vomit it up when I need it? Where am I to hide weapons in this flimsy garb?” With an exasperated sigh, Esme offered to strip naked if he didn’t believe her, though she advised him to check her quickly, for Ali was not the most patient of men.

As she’d expected, the eunuch declined the honor. He checked for concealed weapons by giving her body a few unenthusiastic pats and, grumbling all the while, let her pass. Naturally. What had the Vizier to fear from a skinny little girl?

Now Esme need only pray Ali was in the private chamber she headed for and that he was still awake. It was only a bit after midnight, and he often stayed up well into the early morning, either browbeating exhausted counselors or amusing himself with an attractive object of either gender. If the latter was the case, Esme hoped he’d chosen a female this night. She had no idea what methods men used to enjoy each other and was not eager at the moment for enlightenment. She’d enough to keep clear in her mind without being distracted by new forms of depravity.

A generous Providence had granted her a reprieve, and she would make noble use of it. She would get her revenge, but this time in a way even Jason would have approved, for she would carry out his heroic mission. Even Percival would be proud of her and greatly relieved when his secret was put properly to work. It would be. She knew what to do and was not afraid. She was the Red Lion’s daughter, and before she left her beloved country forever, she’d save it.

Though Ali wouldn’t believe her at first, he was too wise to discount her accusations entirely. He’d investigate, and his spies would soon discover the truth. In a very short time, Ismal would find himself in the hands of skilled torturers. Then he’d die horribly, just as he deserved, but her own hands would not be stained with his blood. She’d be far away, lonely and unwanted, perhaps, but with her soul wiped clean. In Albania, she might even be praised as a brave heroine. That would be enough for her, Esme told herself. That and satisfying visions of Ismal’s slow, agonizing death.

These agreeable fantasies sped her to the door of Ali’s private chamber. She was trying to decide whether to knock politely or just creep in when she heard Ismal’s voice, sweet and mellifluous as always. With a silent oath, Esme sank down upon the cold floor to wait. She hoped he’d not be all night.

“I should hold my tongue,” Ismal was saying, “and not risk your displeasure. Yet though you’ll kill me for it, I must speak what is in my heart. My love for you is too great to do otherwise.”

Ali chuckled. “I do believe the English lord’s beauty has addled your wits, little cousin. The girl has to go. She should have gone long ago, along with her half-brother. This is no time to annoy the British. They’re already testy about those villainous Parghiots I slaughtered, and they’re bound to give me trouble about the Suliots, too. I’m going to have the Devil’s own time softening them as it is. I want our visitors safe in British custody before negotiations begin.”

“They won’t negotiate at all if you give the girl a chance to poison their minds first. You saw how she abused the English lord and his king. Send her into exile among those she hates, expose her to their scorn, and you will become her enemy.”

“Yes, a terrible thing that would be,” Ali answered. “I’m shaking in my slippers at the thought of her displeasure. What ghastly thing will she do, I wonder? Weep? Curse me? Stamp her tiny foot? Allah, preserve me. It’s too dreadful to contemplate, the wrath of this little girl.” He roared with laughter.

Esme scowled at the door.

“She may seek revenge.” Ismal’s voice betrayed no hint of irritation. “She knows how badly you want English artillery and advisers. She’s also aware that the more liberal of the English strive to turn their government against you. She can help them, and they’ll be happy to use her. It won’t be hard for her to twist the truth and make you appear a greater threat to the civilized world than the Corsican, Bonaparte.”

Esme’s eyes widened. She’d never trusted Ismal. Never had she doubted he was guilty. All the same, she could not believe the filth he uttered—or that Ali remained quiet, as though he was seriously considering the snake’s warnings.

Yet wasn’t this the sort of threat Ali might heed? He vas always quick to imagine he was being persecuted. He also understood revenge. He was a master of it, a most patient one. He never forgot an injury, though he might wait half a century to collect payment. Damn, but Ismal knew what he was doing; he played the Vizier’s weaknesses as though they were the strings of his giftelia.

Ali’s roar of laughter broke the silence. Evidently, he was not to be played so easily. Esme relaxed.

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“Really, Ismal, you’re most entertaining this evening,” the Vizier chortled. “If I didn’t know your sober habits, I’d think you were drunk. Certainly you’re blind. Perhaps she doesn’t want to go. But revenge? You forget the handsome English stallion. Do you think he can’t keep her mind off her grievances?”

“She despises him.”

“Indeed. That’s why, of all the places she might have chosen, she took her seat beside him. Very close beside him.”

Esme winced.

“And when I asked her whether his English sword struck slow and steady, or quick and fierce, she turned the color of ripe cherries.”

“Any maiden would blush at such speech,” Ismal said.

“A maiden wouldn’t have comprehended it or accused me of heeding filthy gossip.”

Esme covered her hot face with her hands. She might have known Ali had good reason for speaking so to her. She should have known she’d betray herself to him. Everyone did.

“She understood because she’s felt his thrust—or wants to,” Ali went on. “Her anger’s only the fire of love, as I explained to him. She’s young, poor child. She hardly comprehends the passion she feels for him. And, naturally, grief for her father confuses her mind. She’s like a wounded creature who strikes out blindly at those who try to help her. But the English lord will doctor her. I advised him how: with sweet words and a gentle touch.”

Esme closed her eyes. Sweet words. Gentle caresses. Not affection, but “doctoring.” Manipulation.

“You think he’ll take your advice?” Ismal asked. “You think this insolent nobleman will trouble himself to keep her quiet with his lovemaking? Just for your sake—or hers? You’ve extraordinary faith in a man everyone knows is a whore.”

“I don’t need faith,” came the confident answer. “I’ve paid him well to make certain she goes with him willingly. It’s what the boy wants, you see, and the boy is the real problem, as the lord so astutely recognizes.”