The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“No! What do you—” Her face burned. “Oh, it is a joke.”

“Or wishful thinking,” he muttered. He caught his breath, then went on. “That is to say, I distinctly felt something bite me, and I rather hoped it was you because—”

“You wished me to bite you?”

“Because otherwise it was some other creature that bit me. There being a great many of them and only one of you, the latter odds were less disheartening, you see.”

“Then perhaps you should not sleep so close, efendi. I think the fleas find you more appetizing, and so mine may travel to you,” she added guiltily.

“I don’t mean to sleep so close. It just seems to happen. I suppose you find me very troublesome.”

The air in the tent carried a faint, fresh promise of morning, and the heavy darkness was receding, leaving a somber veil of gray light in its wake. He sat with his knees drawn up and his arms loosely crossed upon them. Even in the gloomy shadows, he seemed a work of sculptor’s art, too beautiful to be mortal flesh and blood. He was indeed troublesome, she thought. Her mind should remain fixed on her duty, on a father’s murder to be avenged, but this man called her mind away to fasten on him instead.

“Yes,” she said.

“You won’t believe this, Esme, but normally I’m most agreeable company. It’s one of my few talents. I can make myself agreeable to just about anybody.”

He hesitated, then went on in light tones, “Otherwise, I’d surely have starved to death by now. You see, all I’ve got to my name is my name. That and a skill for pleasing is what feeds, clothes, and houses me.”

She turned a disbelieving gaze upon him.

“It’s quite true,” he assured her. “Like my untitled brothers, the fleas, I’m a parasite. But a charming one. I never bite, for instance.”

“I believe you can be agreeable,” she said. “At least to the women, or you would not have had so many.”

“I should like to know exactly what Petro has been telling you. I’m sure it’s a hideous exaggeration—”

“He said you were addicted to females, and that they all throw themselves at you shamelessly, and so you’ve had your pick of Italy’s most beautiful women. I understand Italy has many such,” she said expressionlessly.

“I have not been a monk, precisely, but—”

“Therefore I am not surprised you can be charming. I was surprised only that you are poor.” Esme did not want to reflect further upon the series of mouths he’d kissed—and not in joke—or the voluptuous bodies his smooth, long fingers had caressed—and not recoiled from.

“I am penniless,” he said. “That’s no exaggeration.”

“Then it is one thing we have in common,” she said.

“I doubt it raises your opinion of me, however.”

“My opinion is of no consequence.”

“If it weren’t, I shouldn’t be going to all this bother to tell you what a pleasant fellow I really am. I wish you would pay attention, Esme, and stop distracting me,” he complained. “There was a point I wished to make, about two centuries ago, before you detoured into my promiscuity.”

“I beg your pardon, efendi. “ Folding her hands, Esme gave him her full attention—and found it very difficult to suppress a smile. With that aggrieved expression on his face and his black hair tousled every which way, he looked like a sulky schoolboy.

“I was trying to explain,” he said reproachfully, “that I’m not naturally bad-tempered. It’s the fleas and the dirt. Even those I could endure stoically enough if I could be assured of regular, hot baths and fresh changes of clothing. But to sleep in the same filthy clothes I traveled in all day, then to wake and spend another filthy day in the same foul garments, while the vermin continue to feed and breed upon me—well, it does make me wild.”

She did smile then, though she looked away. “Ah, Varian Shenjt Gjergj, you call yourself penniless, yet I cannot imagine such a life as you live. Hot baths whenever you wish, and always clean clothes. I doubt even the most pampered of a rich man’s concubines knows such luxury. If this is what you are accustomed to, it is not surprising that our journey makes you cross. I shall try to be more understanding in the future.”

“You think I’m childish, all the same,” he said. “Shall I tell you what it’s like, and let you judge whether it’s childish to want such things?”

“As you wish,” she said with a shrug. “It is too late to go back to sleep. The others will rise soon.”

“Then let me charm you. Let me paint you a picture.” He unfolded his long body to lean back on his elbows, and closed his eyes.

Then he began to speak, his voice soft and dreamy as he described a luxurious room, the floors laid with rich carpets…coals glowing in the hearth...an enormous copper tub, smooth and deep, filled with steaming water. There was soap, sweet with the scent of herbs and flowers, and a maidservant gently washing her. There was Esme, luxuriating in the scented warmth…then rising from the water like Aphrodite…soft, thick towels enveloping her. He painted Paradise, but it was more than a painting. The words and his dreamy tone seeped into her very soul and made her ache with longing.

She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until the low, smoky sound of his voice abruptly ceased. Opening them, she found him staring at her very strangely, the smile gone. She flushed and looked away.

“Oh, Lord,” he murmured. Then he scrambled up and strode out of the tent.

Chapter Seven

Ignoring the men staring at him in sleepy astonishment, Varian stomped toward the river. En route, he nearly collided with Petro, who’d emerged from behind a bush, hastily arranging his trousers.

“What is wrong, master?” he cried as Varian thrust past him.

“Nothing.”

“But you are angry, master. Is it the child? Y’Allah, what has the little wretch done now?” Petro asked, trotting alongside.

“I’m not angry,” Varian ground out. “I’m going to have a wash, and I don’t need an escort. Go make yourself useful, and try to boil some coffee that doesn’t taste as though it were spewed from a cesspit.”

“A wash?” Petro shrieked. “In the river? You will freeze your privates, and they will drop off like pieces of ice.”

“Go make the coffee, drat you, and leave me in peace.”

Petro uttered a soulful sigh, then shrugged and turned back toward the camp, doubtless to inform the company that his master had taken leave of his senses.

He would not be far wrong, Varian thought. Certainly the master no longer recognized his own mind. When the Turk had struck his head, some rotting mental door to the blackest part of Varian’s soul had surely come unhinged. Because only the most corrupt and depraved of men could lust for a child.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her, yet he’d wakened with Esme’s slight body crushed to his, and his own rigid with wanting. Even when he sat talking normally, it wasn’t normal at all. The whole time he’d contrived excuses for himself: she wasn’t really a child, not by her country’s standards; she was old enough to wed and bear children, therefore old enough to be bedded.

He knew that wanting her was wrong, and all his twisted reasoning wouldn’t make it right. All the same, her low, soft voice was right, and that whisper of a body had felt right enough in his arms. And so he’d chattered nothing but d

rivel, more excuses, and hated himself because he couldn’t stop making them.

He’d felt, Varian reflected in frustration, like a schoolboy, infatuated with a girl who’d as soon knock him down as look at him. He’d behaved like one, too, trying to coax tolerance from her, or, dammit, even pity.

Which had backfired nicely, hadn’t it? To speak of bathing, of all things, and burn that image in his mind: her slim, untouched body stepping from the bath into his waiting arms…her skin, naked and wet against his…her soft, ripe mouth offering up its innocence to his.

He groaned and sank to his knees at the river’s edge. Closing his eyes, he plunged his hands into the frigid torrent and gasped at the shock. Determinedly, he drenched his face. It wasn’t enough. He needed a punishment he’d recollect with dread the next time this filthy lust got hold of him.

Varian set his teeth and began to pull off his clothes.

“I think he has gone mad,” Petro said sadly as he took the blankets from Esme. She’d sent the protesting dragoman back after his master, and Petro had reached the stream in time to see his lordship emerge naked and shivering from the icy water.

“He complained of the dirt and fleas,” she answered, betraying none of her own anxiety. “Besides, he’s English, and they have strange customs.”

Not until the party was well on its way, and Petro safely out of hearing range, did she express her feelings to his lordship.

“Why must you do such a stupid thing?” she scolded. “Did I nurse you for nothing? Is the journey not hard enough for you? Must you make yourself ill? The streams are cold enough in the height of summer. Now they will stop the blood in your veins, and your limbs will fall off.”

“Actually, I found the experience most…invigorating,” he answered. “My blood still tingles.”

“You are a crazy man. And I warn you, if you become sick, I shall not nurse you again. I shall stand by your deathbed and laugh.”