The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

He scrambled down over the slippery stones. “Esme!”

He leapt aboard the nearest boat, a tiny vessel. A quick examination turned up nothing. He went on to the next, and the next. No life. No human sound here except his own furious breathing and the pounding of his heart.

He was aware of sound behind him—from the town—as though the merrymakers were advancing to the harbor. It was only a buzz of voices, punctuated now and again by a shout, but he’d no interest in the town and scarcely heeded it.

His senses strained instead to discern life here. One life, one small being who must be here. He could not be wrong. He could not have lost her, not this time, for this time, his heart told him, it would be for good.

“Esme!” The next boat was too far away to jump to. He leapt to the stones again instead, stumbled and fell, and cursed. “Esme!” he bellowed. “Don’t make me hunt you down!” He scrambled up. “You won’t get away from me! You won’t, you little witch!”

Something stirred amid the shadowy shapes to his right.

Then he spotted her, on the very last boat of all: a small, dark shape moving clumsily, struggling with something.

“Esme!” He raced toward her, his feet slipping on the wet stones. She was fighting with the sails, and the wind was still rising. If she succeeded, it would sweep her out into the bay in minutes.

“Esme, stop!”

She turned sharply, then away again, and bent to fumble with something.

Varian tripped and nearly slid into the water. As he regained his balance, he saw her boat, free of its mooring now, drifting out toward the narrow neck that opened into the harbor. The tide, or some infernal current, must be carrying her, for the sails still hung raggedly. In the blink of an eye, she had slipped clear of the other boats. For one panic-stricken instant, Varian stood watching the small figure as it battled with the ragged sheets. Then the gusting wind caught and filled them, tearing them from her hands. The boat tilted abruptly. She stumbled and grabbed at the sail.

Sweet Jesus. She didn’t know what she was doing.

“Esme!” he shouted. “Don’t!”

But she would. She knew she couldn’t master the boat, yet she wouldn’t yield. Varian didn’t stop to think further. He hadn’t time—any more than he had time to make off with one of the other vessels. He knew nothing of boats, either. He tore off his coat and boots, ran blindly across the deck, and dove into the water.

When he looked up again, she’d passed the narrow opening, but her motion had slowed. Her vessel was turning, dipping crazily, its partly unfurled sails caught by the wind, then released. He struggled on, forcing his muscles to heed his mind, not their own strength or skill.

He heard a scream and an ominous splash. An answering scream rose within him, and he drove himself harder, though his muscles were shrieking now, his lungs burning.

A lifetime passed or minutes or seconds, then he was close enough to hear her wild thrashing. He looked up in time to see her go under. He kept on moving. He heard death rushing toward her, faster than he, like a roaring wind.

Leave her. Please. Leave her to me. Please. Anything.

“Varian!” One choking cry, so weak amid the great relentless blackness bearing down upon them both.

No. Wait. I’m coming. Wait for me.

Beyond, the sun plummeted to the horizon, red as hellfire. The masterless boat drifted swiftly toward it. Nearer, though still beyond his reach, Varian saw her head sucked down again into the hungry blue maw of the sea. He cried out her name, then plunged into the roaring darkness.

Chapter Nineteen

Varian was aware of the sound before he came fully awake: tenor voices mourning, and with them, the low wail of a pipe.

He opened his eyes to find himself slumped on a stool beside a bed. A few candles flickered fitfully in the darkness, showing him the slight form buried under the bedclothes. A tangled mass of dark red hair framed her pale, still face. Esme stirred slightly, as though she felt his gaze even while she slept. Only sleeping, he assured himself as he rightly stroked her hair. He’d not lost her. The men of Saranda had come to their rescue.

Varian had not made it easy for them. He’d fought like a madman, though even in the madness he’d known he couldn’t get her to shore on his own. The heavy garments that had dragged her down had slowed his progress. As he grew weaker, they’d threatened to pull him down with her.

The rest was hazy. Voices, movement. All Varian’s being had been riveted upon the girl in his arms, whom he refused to relinquish. He must have collapsed. He didn’t recall reaching the house, wherever it was.

Now he realized the voices were coming from outside, and their wailing was merely the usual Albanian melody in minor key, like the one he’d heard Esme singing.

He rose stiffly. His numb muscles awoke with a protest, prickling painfully in his arms and legs as he moved to the open window. Beneath lay a wide terrace where a group of men sang. Below them and beyond, the bay glistened innocently in the moonlight, as though it had not sought to take Esme from him only a few hours before.

From the bed came a moan, then a flurried rustling of bedclothes and a panicked stream of Albanian. Varian hurried back to the bed and gently drew her into his arms. “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re safe.”

He felt a shudder run through her thin frame, then another. Then her chest was heaving, wracked with low, terrible sobs she struggled to contain. But they broke from her at last, and when Varian heard her cry her father’s name, his heart broke with hers.

He who was so clever with words sought them now, only to find he’d nothing of value. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He forced the worthless syllables past the constriction in his throat and knew it was futile to try for better. He pulled her close, stroked her hair, tried to give comfort, and found again he’d none to give. All her pent-up grief ripped free in ragged cries, half Albanian, half English. Hot tears spilled down her face while the sobs shook her small body, and he was helpless.

Women’s tears had never frightened him as they did other men, but this was different. This was his strong, brave Esme weeping. She was helpless and broken, and he couldn’t bear it. His heart ached for her, grieving for her grief and despairing at his own uselessness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over. One futile phrase in answer to her misery.

“I want my father.”

“I’m sorry.”

So it went, endlessly, yet in fact only a short while. In spite of his ineptness—or perhaps because of it—Esme soon recovered. She did so sharply, pushing away from him, then angrily rubbing her nose.

Varian reached for his handkerchief and realized he hadn’t one. They’d taken his sopping garments away. He wore only a robe. He searched the room and found a towel which he wordlessly gave her. She wiped her face.

“I never cry,” she said shakily. “I hate it.”

“I know.”

She muttered to herself a moment, then announced clearly, “You should not have come after me.”

“I had no choice.”

Esme shot him a look of unalloyed contempt.

In that instant, pure, blessed relief washed through him. She was well and truly angry, therefore herself once more. Her own unreasonable, temperamental self.

She was mortified because she’d broken down. Of course she’d take it out on him. Let her. Her rage Varian could deal with, more or less. Her tears paralyzed him.

“Esme,” he began, “you didn’t think I’d let you—”

“I didn’t think even you could be so greedy. I could not believe my eyes when I saw you leap into the water. You could have drowned! For a thousand pounds! What good would money do you at the bottom of the sea?”

“I beg your pardon?” Varian said. “I don’t believe I heard right. Something about a thousand pounds?”

“Something? Do not play games with me. I know that is why you chased me—you, the laziest idler on three continents. But for money, you will stir yoursel

f.”

“Indeed I will,” he replied, “in moderation. To attempt to swim the Ionian is hardly moderate.” He gave her a puzzled glance. “Are you telling me you had a thousand pounds on your person? I thought it was the costume that made you so heavy.”

“Do not pretend to be stupid. I know what Ali offered and what you agreed to do. I hope he gave you the money already. If he did not, you shall never see it, I promise you.”

Varian rubbed his head. “Ali, apparently, offered me a thousand pounds to do something. Please forgive me, but my mind is muddled at present. Perhaps I was struck by an oar. I cannot for the life of me recollect what I agreed to do.”

Her stormy green eyes clouded with confusion. She moved uneasily in the bed. It was a large bed with a feather mattress, decidedly European, “Frankish,” the Albanians would say. All westerners were Franks to them, Varian thought absently while he waited. And he would wait until Doomsday if he must. It appeared Esme had not run away for love of Ismal, as she’d scrawled in her cruel note, but because of this thousand-pounds matter concerning himself. Varian’s offense, whatever it was, must be a grievous one if she could fly into a tantrum after what she’d just endured. Any other young woman would have wanted weeks to recover.

“No one struck you,” came her sullen voice at last. “You are ashamed. That’s why you pretend you don’t remember.”

“I don’t feel the least ashamed,” Varian said lightly. “If you think the recollection will make me so, I pray you will not mention it. We shall speak of something else.”

Once more he took his seat upon the bed. Esme retreated, flushing hotly. “No! You shall not use your arts on me. I shall not marry you. Never! I would throw myself from a mountain first.”

“Marry me?” He drew back in alarm. “I should say not. Whatever put such a ghastly idea into your head?”

“Ghastly?” Her voice rose shrilly. “You did not tell Ali it was ghastly…”