The Lion's Daughter

  His lips sank into the softness of her palm, and Esme caught her breath as pleasure pierced her, sharp as a stiletto. Then again, and again, as he trailed tiny, lingering kisses to her wrist and found at last her betraying, throbbing pulse. A moment only it was, yet surely he’d need no more to read her heart’s clamorous message. At last his mouth released her, and the tingling shocks subsided. She told herself to move away, far away, but his intent silver gaze pinioned her.

  “I need you,” he whispered, and in the space of a heartbeat, he reached out and pulled her down to him.

  Her small body sank against his without struggle, though she’d full reason to resist—and quickly. She knew his strength and his swiftness. She knew as well how his touch made a shambles of reason, and scattered right and wrong to the wind.

  Without protest or struggle, she’d go speedily to her disgrace, all the greater because she knew what he was and what he sought. But her heart leapt in gladness when his hands caught in her hair and pulled her face to his. She knew she’d be lost, that dishonor hastened toward her. But his wicked mouth was a breath away, and Esme wanted it so badly she could weep.

  She closed her eyes, and he swept her into a long kiss that made the world reel crazily. His smooth fingers drew trails of tingling warmth along her skull, and her thoughts scattered like sparks from a crackling hearth. His hard body pressed its heat to hers, and her tense muscles yielded like metal to fire and forge. His tongue coaxed and, obedient to his gentle urging, Esme parted her lips.

  The cool taste of his flesh within her was a shock, but only for an instant before a rush of dark pleasure swamped all else. His tongue coiled about hers, and the taste was like a wicked secret. It was sin she tasted, and sin was a delicious drunkenness. It was treacherously sweet, an insidious poison that seeped to her soul. This was evil she tasted, the wickedness of his heart. Though he was as beautiful as a god, Esme knew this was not paradise he took her to. Here danger thrummed in the darkness. Yet it seemed she’d hungered for this all her life.

  His mouth left hers to draw fire trails along her cheek and tease at her ear, then on, to kiss the throbbing pulse at her throat. Esme caught her breath, and her eyes flew open. But a wicked secret seeped into her skin where his mouth touched it, and the secret sped through her, making her forget all else. Languorous pleasure streamed through her, and she sighed. Yes. This. His mouth whispering evil to her flesh...a path of tiny kisses, tongues of fire along her shoulder...the rustle of linen as the shirt slipped down, down, and was gone...the cool night air upon her exposed skin. But the air soon warmed to languorous smoke, rich with his masculine scent. His smooth fingers slid, achingly slow, down her naked breast, and her heart raced in answer: Yes. Touch me. Make me beautiful.

  She became beautiful, soft as velvet, for a dark god held her and transformed her with his caress. She wanted to be beautiful, always, wanted more. Her body strained toward his, yearning to be melted and changed. She would liquefy in his hands, and he’d mold her into a goddess.

  He drew back, though she could still feel his breath upon her as he gazed at her. “You’re so beautiful.” His voice was rough.

  Yes. He’d made her so. Esme wanted to tell him. She couldn’t. She wasn’t Esme any more, but molten liquid, a hot stream of pleasure coiling about him. Her fingers curled round his neck and crept into the silky waves of his hair.

  He shuddered, drew her closer, and pushed his knee between her legs. His hands slid up her thighs, then he sank against her once more, and his tongue traced a slow, curling path to the sensitive peak of her breast. His warm mouth drew upon her tender flesh, draining her, only to flood her with rapture that made her moan. The stream of pleasure swelled into a beautiful, wild sea. She wrapped about him tighter still, pressing her thighs against his, demanding more, impatient now with gentleness.

  His hands dragged hard down the length of her body, while he murmured words she couldn’t understand. Then he rolled her fully onto her back and sought her mouth. Again and again his tongue plunged and coiled within her, and she surged like a great wave, yearning to break upon the shore. Higher and higher she surged, only to find no release. She didn’t want it to stop, yet she’d surely die if it didn’t.

  His restless hands found her breasts again, her waist, then slid lower, toward the intimate place between her legs. She understood it must be so. She had to be his, and must yield all her secrets, all her self. Yet when she felt his touch upon that most private of places, fear stabbed her. She drew back instinctively—for an instant only—but he paused.

  His breathing was labored, and his long sigh shaky. He rolled away from her, onto his back, leaving her chilled…and alone. Then rose all the shame desire had so thoroughly subjugated while he made love to her. Her face burned.

  A long moment passed.

  “Good God, Esme,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “You weren’t leaving it up to me, were you? Did you think it would ever occur to me to stop?”

  “I was not thinking.” Her own voice was thick as well. She felt as though she’d been fighting ten armies singlehanded, though she’d never fought at all. “How is a woman to think when you do such things to her? Once you begin, it is impossible to be sensible. Impossible.” She fixed her humiliated gaze upon the ceiling. “I could not stop you. I did not wish to stop you. I am ashamed to say this, but it is the truth. If you wish to dishonor me, I cannot prevent it. You make me as stupid as a sheep.”

  “Don’t say that.” He turned toward her. “You can’t leave it up to me.” He grasped the back of her head to make her face him. “You can’t.”

  “You can’t leave it to me,” she said shakily. “Not when you look at me so, not when you touch me. I am not made of wood, Varian Shenjt Gjergj, and I am not a child. Nor is this a child’s game you play. It is a man’s game, one I am certain you always win. Must you win it with me?”

  His hand strayed to her shoulder, then trailed lightly down over her breast, to her waist. She caught her breath, but that was all. How could she push his hand away when it made her desperate, made her ache for him to complete what he’d begun?

  “Yes,” he said, “but not against your will.” His hand moved to her belly and rested there. Heat washed through her and sank to throb in the private place he’d touched moments ago.

  “Against my will?” she murmured. “Ah, Varian, you are so foolish.”

  Esme tugged at his shoulder, to bring him closer, but he didn’t seem to understand. With a gasp of impatience, she pulled him to her and shamelessly pressed her mouth to his. He made the faintest resistance, then, with a sigh, succumbed.

  Their tongues met and coiled, and Esme took his kiss even more greedily than she’d done before. She knew where it would lead. She wanted it. She wanted to be driven again into the dizzying darkness, but farther than before. Much farther. She touched him now, as he’d done to her. He trembled and moved restlessly under her caresses, his breathing shallow, hurried. His body answered her touch as hers had done his. Half in wonder, half in triumph, Esme let her hands wander freely and grew giddy with power when she heard him moan.

  He pulled back slightly. “Stop it.”

  Oh, no. Not yet. Esme slid her hand down the opening of his shirt, to the waist of his trousers. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart thundered like a crashing sea.

  “No,” he groaned. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Then show me.”

  “No.” He broke away abruptly and hauled himself up to a sitting position. “No. I’ve shown you a great deal too much. Damnation.” He looked at her. “Don’t ever, ever do that again. I’m not Sir Galahad, dammit. It just about killed me to be noble once—but twice—in a few minutes—in the most aggravating circumstances?”

  “You should not have touched me again,” she said. “I told you how it was.”

  “You didn’t have to demonstrate! Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

  “What you do to me?”


  He flinched as though she’d slapped him. “I didn’t mean…”

  He stared bleakly about him. “But I did, didn’t I? Not against your will, I said. That was bloody chivalrous of me.” His gray gaze, bitter now, returned to her. “I’d better leave,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  The day after the bandit left him with the priest, another huge man came and took Percival away. His name was Bajo. According to the priest, Bajo was Uncle Jason’s most trusted friend. He’d been following the bandits, waiting for a chance to get Percival safely away. Last night, Bajo had stood guard outside the priest’s house. Though he was a great bear of a fellow who spoke in growls, Percival felt entirely safe in his company.

  After a very wet, long journey, they reached Berat—a largish village stuck to the sides and top of a mountain—and went to stay with a man named Mustafa.

  To Percival’s relief, the old man understood some English, though he spoke to Percival mainly in Greek. While they talked, Mustafa’s mother, Eleni, plied Percival with food. Then the kind old lady took him away and put him to bed.

  Percival slept through the night, most of the following day, and a good part of the day after. He was so miserably weary he might have slept away another week if, on his fourth day in Berat, the news hadn’t come.

  He’d just finished picking at his supper when the two men entered the small bedchamber, and a smiling Mustafa announced that Cousin Esme was alive and with Lord Edenmont in a village called Poshnja, about forty miles north of Berat.

  Even while he was digesting the wonderful news, Percival was aware that Bajo didn’t seem pleased.

  “Bajo says he knew Esme was not dead,” Mustafa said after a brief exchange. “He spread the lie so that she would not be pursued. He’s sorry for deceiving us, but with spies everywhere, he had no choice. But word is out now. In a few more hours, all Tepelena will know.”

  Bajo growled something else.

  “He is vexed with your cousin,” said Mustafa. “He ordered her to remain with the ship. Not only has she disobeyed, but she has been most indiscreet.” He explained that one of Esme’s escort had been wounded, she’d raised a fuss on his account, and it appeared she’d remain in Poshnja until the man recovered.

  No wonder Bajo was cross. Now that people knew Cousin Esme was alive—and still in Albania—she was in danger again.

  “Good heavens!” Percival jumped up and grabbed his pouch. “We’d better go after her—before Ismal tries—”

  Mustafa waved him back down. “Do not vex yourself. Ismal is closely guarded in Tepelena, for Ali is greatly annoyed with him. Ismal is too busy preserving his own neck to trouble your cousin. He has blamed the abduction on overeager followers, who acted on their own. It is said the ringleaders confessed under torture. Of course, it is only coincidence that these men were very wealthy, with beautiful wives,” Mustafa added drily. “Their possessions, naturally, are now forfeit to Ali.”

  Percival couldn’t believe his ears. “Ismal’s only under guard? Does this mean he’s still under suspicion? Is he awaiting trial? It wasn’t just abduction, after all. That is—well, surely the two events were connected. I mean, Uncle Jason’s murder. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Ali can’t believe that. No one can believe that.”

  “You do not understand these men,” Mustafa said patiently. “Ismal can be most persuasive. Also, to murder Jason is not in character. Even I cannot believe Ismal would act so incautiously. I loved your uncle, and my heart, too, cries for revenge. Yet neither reason nor feeling points to Ismal.”

  Bajo said something, to which Mustafa answered sharply, which led to a long debate. Meanwhile, Percival tried to sort out what he’d just heard.

  Evidently they believed Ismal hadn’t any motive for murdering Uncle Jason. Even Ali must believe that, if he hadn’t executed Ismal already. Which meant that Percival Brentmor might well be the only person in Albania who knew what Ismal was up to.

  There was no doubt this was the same Ismal mentioned in Otranto, and the other night by the bandits. He sounded just the sort of man who might succeed in overthrowing Ali Pasha: influential, devious, and terribly clever. Ali must be warned before it was too late and Albania erupted into bloody revolution.

  Belatedly, Percival realized Mustafa was speaking to him. He stammered an apology.

  “Bajo must be on his way,” Mustafa repeated. “We agree it is best that you remain with me. Your cousin and the English lord are headed to Tepelena, thinking to find you there. But they will stop here first, for Berat is on their way. From here, you may easily travel west to Fier, thence to the coast. There you can get another boat, either to take you to Corfu—which is under British control—or directly to Italy. There is no need to continue to Tepelena.”

  Percival fought down his panic. “You mean, I shan’t get to—to meet Ali Pasha?”

  Mustafa glanced at Bajo. “That would not be wise. The sooner Esme is out of the country, the better.”

  Bajo was already rising, clearly eager to be gone.

  Percival thought quickly. If anyone knew about the conspiracy Uncle Jason had been trying to unravel, it must be Bajo. Surely he could be trusted with information about Ismal. But how to tell him? He understood only Albanian. Mustafa would have to translate...but maybe he shouldn’t know about the matter. Bajo hadn’t even told him Cousin Esme was alive. Because of the spies. Everywhere.

  Just as the large Albanian turned toward the door, Percival bounced up again. “Please sir, is he going to Tepelena?”

  “Aye. He must explain to the Vizier what has happened.”

  “Please then, would you ask him to wait? Oh, dear, I don’t mean to be a bother, but I must—that is, may I have a bit of paper and pen and ink?”

  Mustafa stared at him.

  Percival realized he was wringing his hands. He hastily composed himself. “I do beg your pardon—but he’s in such a hurry—and I do hope he doesn’t mind—but I really must write to Ali Pasha—and express my—my regrets that I can’t see him...”

  Fortunately, Percival hadn’t to hold his breath very long. The discussion was mercifully brief.

  “Bajo agrees it is an excellent idea,” said Mustafa. “Ali will be most disappointed not to meet you, but a note in your own hand will please him. It may ease his temper somewhat, which will spare Bajo a great deal of distasteful flattery and appeasement.” He patted Percival’s shoulder. “You are a thoughtful and courteous boy. Come, I will take you to my study, where you may write your note in peace. Bajo and I will bide our time with a cup of kafe.”

  Nearly an hour later, Percival rejoined the men. His hands almost steady, he gave Bajo two folded notes.

  Percival turned to his host. “Please tell Bajo that the one I’ve marked with his name is a present for him. It’s a riddle I made up for Uncle Jason, but—but I should like Bajo to have it. I’ve nothing else to give him in thanks. I hope he finds it interesting. And please tell him I wish him success in—in all he does.”

  The translation brought a rare smile to Bajo’s stern mouth. He responded that Percival was like Jason in more than looks: not only brave but generous of heart.

  With that, and a hearty handshake, the big man took his leave.

  ***

  Though Agimi declared to one and all that he was strong as two oxen and fully capable of the journey, Esme declared otherwise.

  That took care of that, Varian thought resignedly. It was a great pity madam had not been about some years ago to lay down the law to Bonaparte. England and her allies would have been spared a deal of trouble.

  She had certainly neatly disposed of his lordship, hadn’t she? You can’t leave it to me. Not when you look at me so, not when you touch me. It was the crudest temptation any man could face. She’d offered herself…if he wished to take full responsibility for ruining her.

  She could not possibly know how fiercely he’d wanted her at that moment. What Varian had felt before was nothing to what he felt once he knew she wanted him.

/>   He was sick with it.

  He wanted to kill her.

  He wanted to kill everybody, and most especially Percival, because if it had not been for that wretched boy, Varian would never have clapped eyes on her.

  Lord Edenmont did not, however, kill anybody or even give utterance to a cross word—except to Petro—during the remaining interminable four days they spent in Poshnja. Instead, he took a lesson every morning in the river and tried to exorcise his frustration with activity. With his host and Petro, Varian visited every house of the village, where he spent hours telling anecdotes about his native land and his countrymen, especially Lord Byron, of whom all had heard.

  When he grew sick to death of Byron, Lord Edenmont played the role of lord of the manor and offered his woefully limited advice regarding defenses, architecture, and agriculture. His father had drummed—and occasionally thrashed—some farming wisdom into him, which Varian, when interrogated by his hosts, scraped out from the dustiest recesses of his mind.

  He even submitted his tormented body to physical labor. To their very great astonishment—and embarrassment—the English baron helped Hasan’s sons repair their mill, which had been severely damaged in the recent storms. In the process, another storm burst without warning upon them, and Varian was drenched through before they found shelter. The morning on which they were to leave Poshnja, he woke with a burning throat and a beastly headache.

  Esme took one critical look at his ashen face and announced they could not depart until he was better.

  Varian turned away from her, threw his traveling bag over his shoulder, tore his cloak from the hook, and marched from the house.

  “You are not fit to travel,” she cried, hurrying after him. “It begins to rain again, and you will take a very bad chill, and—”

  “I’m not spending another minute in this place,” he declared.

  Setting her mouth, Esme stomped off toward her horse, leaving Petro to communicate to Hasan the baron’s thanks and farewells.