The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

Esme moved uneasily. He was lying, of course. He’d made off with her for revenge and would, if he could, rape her for the same reason. All the while his voice would remain sweet, gentle.

“You don’t believe me.” He gave her another faintly abashed smile. “I do not believe it myself. I have been well-educated and do not believe in demons, yet I find myself behaving as though I were possessed. When you fled Tepelena, I knew if I pursued you, Ali would have me followed—yet I could not stop myself. And so they caught me and took me to Janina, where Ali’s doctors began poisoning me. By then, you see, he had learned somehow of my disloyalty. I lay upon my lonely bed, dying by inches, and saw all my hopes destroyed, because a woman had made me stupid and reckless.”

“Your vanity made you stupid,” she said. “You only wanted what you could not have—Ali’s kingdom, a woman who hates you.”

“Nay, I am merely your scapegoat. You have persuaded yourself to hate me. I shall persuade you otherwise.”

She wished he’d lose his temper, show some sign of hostility, because his gentle patience was disquieting. His soft voice was like the silken threads of a dangerous net.

He looked down. “Listen to me.” He took her hand and closed his lightly around it. “I was raised, educated for intrigue. I can make men—and women—do almost anything but see into my heart. The Almighty gave me an attractive form and intelligence. These I learned to use as tools, always with calculation. You know this of me.”

“I know it well enough.” His nearness bothered her a great deal more than it ought. He was only a man, and this was skill only, as he said, a gift for making others do as he wished. Yet Esme couldn’t help recalling the superstitions about him: that he was not quite human. The graceful fingers closed about hers disturbed her too much. She had not been able to resist Varian. It was possible she was weak-minded about men, or certain kinds of men. It was possible—nay, likely—that Ismal possessed even greater skill and fewer principles than her husband. Esme told herself she loved Varian and hated Ismal with all her heart. All the same, Ismal’s nearness, his touch, his scent…filled her with dread.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he said, making her heart hammer.

She hastily assured herself he couldn’t read her mind. It was only her body that betrayed her: the chill clamminess of the hand he held and the hurried pace of her breathing. “If you don’t want me to be afraid, then don’t play your games,” she said.

“You want me to speak and act plain, as you do?” Ismal gave a small sigh before lifting his gaze once more to hers. “I lost that skill long ago. To live in Ali’s court is to live an endless chess game: to mislead and feign, always alert for traps ahead. Always, I played the game well, until you came to Tepelena and sickened my mind. But you shall cure me, little warrior. When we lie together, I shall be part of you and you shall be part of me. In this way, you will know me, and in time you will take pity.”

Esme drew back, but didn’t try to pull her hand away. She didn’t want to trigger a physical struggle she was all too likely to lose. “I don’t want you,” she said, “and it is monstrous to imagine I could ever pity you.”

“You don’t understand. Later, you will.”

“I understand well enough. You mean to rape me. You talk this nonsense only to amuse yourself.”

He clicked his tongue. “I abhor violence. If you wish violence, I shall give you to my crew. When they are done with you, I think you will find yourself in a more accommodating temper. Then I shall give you a second chance, perhaps a third. I am not without patience.”

Esme felt the blood draining from her face.

“It would be much simpler to accept me,” he said. “I cannot expect you to show eagerness for my embrace, but because you are stoical, I can ask that you endure.”

“Endure? Dishonor my wedding vows, cuckold my hus—”

“I am your husband, by right,” he said calmly. “I paid your bride price and was cheated. When I tried to claim you, I nearly paid with my life.”

“That is nonsense. You have the chess set. You have reclaimed this so-called bride price many, many times over.” Esme kept her voice as low and calm as his. “You are a savage, no better than Ali.”

His hand tightened about hers, and his blue eyes flashed briefly, but that was all. His control was formidable. “That may be so, for Ali made me what I am. If you want a better man, Esme, you must make me one. Before this new day is ended, I will show you how.”

Dawn did nothing so decisive as break that day. Lumberingly it rolled upon Newhaven in a heavy blanket of low clouds, a somber light slowly penetrating the blackness of night.

***

As he’d done countless times before, Jason—currently in the guise of ship’s surgeon, wearing a black wig and spectacles—scanned the vessels in the harbor. He didn’t allow himself to think, only to see and let his instincts do the rest.

He had let reason overrule his instincts at Gibraltar and wound up in Cadiz, on board the wrong ship with an irate foreign minister. The man loudly objected to having his vessel searched and thereafter accused Jason of stealing valuable government documents. The consequent complications had trapped Jason in Cadiz for more than a week, and Ismal, who’d been mere hours ahead at that point, had eluded him again.

Jason had sent word ahead to Falmouth. Thence it should have traveled England’s coast. It should, as well, have reached London by now. Unfortunately, Ismal had already obtained more than a week’s lead. In that time he might have done anything, gone anywhere. Jason swore under his breath.

The hands were making his small craft fast when he became aware of a bustle on a nearby vessel. He stared hard at the ship, a small American-made schooner. Sleek and fast, ships like this—though usually larger—had harassed British shipping to a frustrating degree during the last war with the Americans.

Jason glanced at Bajo. The Albanian’s attention was fixed on the same vessel. Before Jason could consult him, their captain approached and gestured shoreward. A naval officer was hurrying down the quay toward them.

Jason hastened from the ship to intercept him and, without a word, handed over his papers.

“Yes, sir, I’ve been expecting you,” said the officer. “Captain Nolcott, at your service. I regret I’ve no

“News for you.”

Jason indicated the vessel which had alerted his instincts. “Tell me about that little schooner,” he said.

“The Olympias?”

Bajo approached. When Jason repeated the vessel’s name, the bearlike man smiled.

“The man we seek fancies himself a descendant of the mother of Alexander,” Jason explained to Captain Nolcott. “That was her name.”

“Can’t be the same man,” the captain said. “The owner’s an Englishman named Bridgeburton, and the ship’s papers were all in order. They’re awaiting a foreign trade official they’re taking to Cadiz.”

“Bridgeburton’s body was pulled from a Venice canal a few months ago,” said Jason. While the captain gazed at him in consternation, he went on to explain that Bridgeburton was reputedly addicted to a particularly lethal combination, absinthe and wine. Since no marks were found upon the body, it was supposed he’d fallen into the canal in a state of delirium. Jason’s Venice contacts had told him of the matter because Bridgeburton had recently come under suspicion of smuggling and slave trading. They’d assumed he was Ismal’s source of weapons.

Jason didn’t tell Captain Nolcott and hadn’t told his associates in Venice that Bridgeburton had once been a friend. It was Bridgeburton who had lent Jason the money to continue the endless game of hazard long, long ago: the game Jason had scarcely remembered when he woke, violently ill, late the next day…woke to find himself owing Bridgeburton a fortune.

Jason supposed he’d get the remaining answers soon enough, no matter how much he dreaded having them.

At present, however, Captain Nolcott was awaiting instructions. Jason studied the harbor and quays. Newhaven had boasted

a thriving shipping trade early in the last century but, as the paltry collection of vessels—mostly fishing boats—sadly proclaimed, the trade had gone elsewhere. One who wished to depart with a minimum of annoyance might consider it an ideal site. It was a shorter distance from London than Dover was. Dover’s other disadvantage was the busy traffic of post chaises racing to catch the packets to Calais. Bridgeburton’s name fully settled the matter.

“The Olympias looks ready to be leaving soon,” Jason said. “If this wind holds, there’s nothing to stop her.”

“You want her taken?”

Jason was about to answer when he heard the clatter of wheels and hooves on the cobblestones. He’d no need to look toward the sound. Bajo’s countenance and hasty retreat out of sight told him all he needed to know.

Chapter Thirty-One