The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“A she-devil’s more like it,” Risto said angrily. “She’s nothing but trouble. Now at least you won’t have to keep pretending you’re dying of love for her. Humiliating, it must have been, to beg for that ugly bitch.”

“Not at all. It was most entertaining. Unfortunately, it was also very expensive. A thousand pounds last night’s performance cost me. I could have bought rifles, men—the aid of the Sultan himself.” Ismal paused, his blue eyes clouding. “At the very least, I could have got the girl.”

“You don’t want her,” came the hasty answer. “A scrawny witch with a vicious tongue. I’d as soon bed a cobra.”

Ismal smiled, ever so faintly, at the fire. “Ah, well, you have no taste for women.”

“You’re not overly fond of them yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean I share your appetites. Were I capable of desiring a man, I’d have bought the beautiful English whore. An intriguing specimen, is he not, with his coal-black hair and white skin and silver eyes. Should I have bought him for you, perhaps? From all one hears, there’s little he won’t do, for a price.”

Risto’s olive countenance darkened. “He wouldn’t give up the little demon—yet he got your money anyhow, in the end.”

Ismal shrugged. “As soon as I learned they were coming to Tepelena, I realized it would cost me. Even when Lord Edenmont rejected my offer, I knew I’d pay. As I expected, Ali generously offered to ease my troubled conscience last night by relieving me of the thousand pounds. He said he needed it to bribe the Englishman. That I greatly doubt. I lied to him; he lied to me, and I ended by paying, as one always does. Still, you’d think he’d at least let me have the girl.”

“Again, the girl,” Risto said impatiently. “She’s gone and good riddance. Why do you go on and on about that red-haired scarecrow?”

“On and on?” Ismal turned to his servant and arched one well-shaped eyebrow. “So much hostility, Risto? Very strange. One would think you were jealous.”

Pain flashed briefly in the servant’s dark eyes. “You please to mock me,” he said. “You’ve always done so—since you were a babe.”

“Would you rather I lied to you, as I do to everyone else?” Ismal asked softly. “Shall I wear my pretty mask for you, too?”

“Nay, I couldn’t bear it.”

“Then stop acting like a jealous wife. You never did so before.”

“You never behaved so strangely before.” Risto hesitated a moment, then went on, in aggrieved tones. “Last night you called out her name in your sleep.”

Ismal calmly studied his servant’s face for a long, tense while. “I see. And this morning, she vanished. I hope you didn’t make her vanish, Risto.”

“Y’Allah, I should have known. You have been playing with me.” Risto closed his eyes. “I did not kill her, I swear it.”

“What, then?”

“You know,” the servant said miserably. “Always you know.”

“I know I woke before the sun rose and found you gone from the room. I know a few moments ago when you brought me news of Esme’s departure, your black eyes shone with delight.”

Risto winced.

“Her disappearance endangers me, Risto, yet you’re pleased. Most strange in a devoted servant…and friend.”

Risto fell to his knees before the divan. “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “You can’t stir a step toward the south while they’re headed that way. If the weather turns bad again, they could be traveling for weeks. You must leave for Prevesa within days, but you scarcely think of that. While the girl’s within reach, all your mind fixes on her—and that filthy Englishman. You said yourself last night you were trapped by your own scheme. Had you but waited another few days, you said, Jason would have disposed of himself. Now his curst daughter has disposed of herself, and it will be Ali who’s distracted chasing after her. This is your chance to get away—”

“Has she disposed of herself, Risto?”

“May the Almighty strike me dead this instant if I lie to you,” the servant said. Tears trickled down his hard, dark face. “I did not touch her. I saw her go, that is all.”

“And told no one. And did not try to stop her.”

“I followed her a ways. That is all. I did nothing.”

Ismal leaned toward his servant, his blue eyes innocent as a babe’s, kind as an angel’s. “Which way did she go?” he whispered.

Chapter Eighteen

For once, luck was with Esme. Saranda’s tiny population had swelled to thrice its size for the festivities, and she’d managed to arrive a day before Donika’s wedding. She had spotted Donika’s brother Branko shortly after her arrival but waited until nightfall to reveal herself. By then, most of the men were in the early states of intoxication and the women in a frenzy of preparation. They wouldn’t have noticed an elephant stampede, let alone the bedraggled boy Esme appeared to be.

Branko wasn’t pleased to hear her story. Still, though he said she was a thousand times a fool and a hothead, he wasn’t entirely without sympathy. Besides, he owed her. She’d saved his life two years ago and taken a bullet in her leg in the process.

All she wanted, she told him, was a boat to take her north, beyond Ali’s territories, to Shkodra. There, Ali had no power, and she might stay safely with the old man who’d years before taught her healing.

“You needn’t tell anyone else I’m here,” she assured him. “Only help me find a hiding place for now. I won’t stir until you tell me so.”

Branko reflected. “I don’t know the town,” he said at last, in his slow, considering way. “The only safe place I know is with our family. Hush,” he chided when she began to protest about endangering them. “You say no one will think to come here looking for you. Maybe so. Maybe they won’

t guess you’d hide so close to Corfu. Still, word may come any hour—and the officials will be looking for a small female in boy’s garb.”

“With green eyes,” she reminded him. “I must hide. There’s no way I can disguise the color of my eyes.”

“That won’t be necessary if we make you appear a foreigner. A gypsy, maybe. Donika will think of something,” he said. “But first I must get you to the house without arousing notice.”

He thought again for a long while. Esme tried to think, too, but her brain wouldn’t cooperate. It was as exhausted as her body.

“Yes, easy enough,” Branko said, eyeing her thoughtfully. “For now, you’ll be a weary boy I found. I’ll carry you over my shoulder to the house. Only keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.”

He could not have devised a more appealing plan. She’d spent three days endlessly thinking, planning ahead, while trying to keep panic and misery from addling her reason. She’d sold the fancy rifle she’d stolen from the guard and bought a horse with the money. Thereafter, she’d made excellent progress, for the weather had held fair. Nonetheless, Esme was tired to the bone. For a few minutes, it would be so good to let someone else do the thinking for her. Branko’s manner might be slow, but his wits were not. Jason had always thought highly of Donika’s elder brother.

Esme handed over her weapons and travel bags. Branko hoisted these over one broad shoulder and Esme over the other. Her body immediately slumped in relief, and her heavy lids fell closed. The rest was a dull awareness of motion, voices, noise. By the time they reached the house, even that awareness vanished. Esme was lost in black, blissful oblivion.

From the top of the rocky hill above the straggling wood, Varian watched the two riders approach the crossroads. They didn’t pause as they reached it, but smoothly took the right branch.

“I can’t believe it.” He turned to Fejzi, who stood behind him.

“I do not understand, the secretary said, but I believe it. Ismal knows what he’s about. Such a wise young man. And so kind of him to spare us the trouble of tracking her.” He signaled to the men waiting below, who quickly gathered lip their weapons and mounted.