The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

The driver proved cautious, however, slowing his wagon nearly to a standstill as he reached the curve. At that moment, a slight, ragged youth climbed up from the bank and called out to the driver, who answered cheerily. The boy flung two leather bags onto the cart, then leapt in after them.

In stunned disbelief, Varian watched the child burrow under the hay. Then he spat out an oath and charged after the vehicle.

He caught up in minutes, grabbed the board at the rear, and hurled himself aboard. In the next instant, the cart struck a rut, Varian lost his balance, and toppled into the hay.

A woolen-encased head poked up from the mound beside him, and he caught a glimpse of startled green eyes. As Varian started toward her, Esme threw a mass of straw at him, then dashed for the back of the cart. He reached out and grabbed her leg. She staggered, her arms flailing wildly, then fell backward and landed hard upon him before he could roll out of the way.

She couldn’t weigh more than six stone, but her head struck his right shoulder with force enough to crack one or the other, he was sure, as the pain ricocheted up his neck and down his arm. He’d no time to catch his breath, though, because she was trying to struggle up. He flung his aching arm over her, heaved her to the other side, and rolled on top of her. She stilled instantly.

Varian glared at her. Her woolen helmet had slipped down over her eyes. He yanked it off and threw it out of the cart.

The vehicle had rumbled to a stop, and the driver was shouting. Varian ignored him. “We’re getting out,” he told her. “Do you need a clip on the jaw, or will you come peaceably?”

“Don’t hit me,” she gasped. “I’ll come.”

Varian rolled off her, grabbed the bags, and flung them into the road.

She sat up, rubbing the back of her head, her green eyes wide with misery as she gazed about her. Varian jumped down from the cart and held out his hand. Esme stared at his hand a moment, then, tight-lipped, climbed out unaided. As her feet touched the ground, she swayed and caught at the cart for support.

Varian picked her up, carried her the few feet to the side of the road, and deposited her upon a large white rock.

The driver said something in Albanian and laughed. Esme’s color deepened to scarlet.

Varian dug into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a coin. Throwing Esme a warning glance, he approached the driver.

“Faleminderit,” he told the driver. “I’m sorry for your trouble.” He held out the coin. The Albanian hesitated a moment, then nodded and clicked his tongue.

“Oh, yes, you must,” Varian said. “Buy yourself some raki.”

The driver looked from Varian to Esme, smiled, shrugged, and took the coin. After another incomprehensible speech, he drove away.

Varian picked up the leather pouches and marched back to the rock. He dropped them at her feet.

His entire body pounded with outrage. His chest was tight with it, and it beat in his ears, making the tranquil landscape about him throb as well, like a great, hammering sea. He looked at her.

In the sullen afternoon light, her hair glinted deep copper sparks. Yet it was a rat’s nest of tangles and bits of straw and several knotty tendrils stuck damply to her face. She’d dug out her worst, oldest garments, or, more likely, traded some beggar for these.

Had he lingered another few minutes at the coffee shop, she’d have got clean away. He should have let her go, to the Devil if she wanted. He wasn’t responsible for her. He didn’t want to be responsible for anybody. Percival he’d been paid to look after, and couldn’t do even that simple task properly. How was one to look after her? What was one to do with her?

Varian looked about him, at the river glistening in the fitful light, and at the tiny village on its opposite bank. Hills completely enclosed the narrow valley. In Berat, even from the citadel, one could see nothing of what lay beyond.

Varian didn’t want to see, didn’t want to think about what lay beyond, ahead. All he wanted from tomorrow was to get away. Only he wouldn’t. Even far away, Esme would haunt him. He spun round to face her.

“What the devil is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Where in blazes did you think you’d go? How far did you think you’d get—a girl, alone and penniless? How far before your would-be lover tracked you down, or you stumbled into the hands of others less loving?”

“A great deal is wrong, Varian Shenjt Gjergj,” she said. “Keep me, and you make it worse. I cannot go to Corfu with you.” Esme raised her head. Her cool green gaze was steady. “You of all people must see that. You are a man of the world. You know your world. You have seen mine. You know me as well.”

He clenched his fists. He wanted to shake her. A moment ago, he’d offered to strike her. He could not recall when he’d ever felt so desperately angry. Or angrily desperate. He knew he was a fool. He knew he was behaving like a brute, yet he couldn’t stop it. Even while he told himself to calm down and think, the fury rose in his throat, nearly choking him.

“Then go, damn you!” he shouted. “Go to the Devil. Get yourself raped—killed. What is it to me, you little lunatic? All who care about you—men older and easily wiser than I—are ready to move heaven and earth to get you to Corfu. But you think you know what’s best, don’t you? Never mind that you’ll break Percival’s heart. Never mind that a few weeks’ travel with you is the only happiness he’s got to look forward to for the next ten years. He’s just a twelve-year-old boy who doesn’t know any better. And the rest of us are just a lot of stupid men, irrational, illogical, blind, because we want you to be safe.”

“Listen to me,” she said. She put out her hand. “Take my hand, Varian. Be a friend to me, and listen.”

He was afraid to touch her. His rage would weaken, and he didn’t want to feel what lay within it. He turned away and stared blindly into the distance.

“Please, Varian. Will you destroy my life without giving me a hearing?”

He could have borne her angry reproach and all the lashing fury she was capable of. This too quiet plea he couldn’t. The shell of rage cracked, Varian saw himself, and shame washed over him.

She had looked after him, attended him patiently, made his way as comfortable as she could. In retu

rn, he’d tried to ruin her. He’d soiled her innocent mouth with his polluted kisses, corrupted her innocent flesh with his filthy hands. He wanted her still, more than ever. He’d stopped her escape not for her sake but for his. In his twisted mind, Esme had become his property. He needed her, and so, she must stay with him.

Varian exhaled a defeated sigh and turned to her. He took her small hand in both of his and crouched before her. “I’m listening,” he said.

“My father is dead,” she said, her voice expressionless. “Of my English kin, that leaves Percival’s father and grandmother. They do not want me. They may have tolerated me for Jason’s sake, but they would not have taken me in. They might accept a genteel young lady as his daughter, but even Jason could not make me one. Do you think I am mistaken in this, Varian?” she asked quietly. “Tell me truly.”

He wanted to lie. He couldn’t, not under that steadfast green gaze. “No.”

“Perhaps someone, even my young cousin, may persuade them to charity. That is bad enough in any case, but in England, among foreigners—I do not think I could bear it. It is my fault, perhaps. I am too proud.”

“Yes. Proud.”

“Here, in my own country, I have no kin but my grandmother in Gjirokastra. I can go to live with her, but she is old, and when she dies, I shall have no home, no kin. I will become Ali’s property, to dispose of as he wishes. So you see, my best hope is to get a husband.”

“Oh, Lord.” Varian knew what was coming. Already his mind had frantically scrambled down every path, seeking a solution. He knew what it was. There was only one answer. A sick dread settled upon his heart.

“I am going to Ismal,” she said.

“Oh, lovely.” His voice was taut. “The man who killed your father.”

She clicked her tongue, the Albanian “tsk” that negated and dismissed in an instant. “Even Mustafa does not believe that. I have thought on it long and hard, and find I cannot believe it, either. I told you some of my thoughts in Poshnja. It makes no sense to me, to anybody. Bajo alone blamed Ismal, but I believe Bajo would have said anything to make me leave. He thought of nothing but my father’s wish to take me to England. He did not think how Jason’s death changed everything. It is much the same with my poor cousin. He wants to fulfill his mother’s wish—a kind one, if Jason had lived, even if she had lived. But they are gone, and their wish is gone, impossible.”