The Lion's Daughter (30 page)

But
she'd promised to be good, hadn't she? He'd told her to go to bed,
and so she would. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

He
gave a short laugh. “Where I
want
you to sleep is not the question.
You'd best share Percival's room. Petro is out with his cronies,
drinking himself to stupefaction. We'll probably find him sprawled in
the courtyard tomorrow.”

He
glanced at the
sofa,
and
his lip curled. “I shall make my bed here. It's a great deal
softer than what I've become accustomed to.”

“I
shall bring you blankets,” Esme said dutifully.

“Thank
you, but I am quite warm. My thoughts shall keep me so, curse them.
Good night, little warrior.”

She
gave him a hasty kiss on the cheek, but drew away quickly, so she'd
not be tempted to seek more.
“Natën
e
mire, Varian Shenjt
Gjergj,”
she whispered.
I
love you,
her
grateful heart added.

Chapter
17

TWO
HOURS LATER, ESME WAS CREEPING through the quiet darkness of the
harem.

Percival
had been sound asleep when she'd reached the bedchamber. She'd had to
wait, though, until Lord Edenmont was asleep as well. She'd sat
listening at the top of the stairs until the restless rustling below
had ceased and a light snoring assured her Varian had at last
succumbed.

Then
she had climbed out the window, made her way to the gallery, and
hurried on to the harem. The sleepy guards at the entrance had let
her pass without question. When however, she reached the small
doorway leading to the passage she sought
—
the
one Jason had described to her
—
the
mound of blubber nodding there suddenly jerked full awake to raise
hissing objection.

“Ali
has sent for me,” she hissed back. “You'd best let me
pass or both our heads shall be offered to his highness on a tray.”

“I
had no such message,” the eunuch said. “How do I know you
do not go to assassinate him?”

“I,
the Red Lion's daughter? Even if I went on such an errand, with what
weapon would I dispatch him? Think you I

swallowed
a sword and mean to vomit it up when I need it? Where am I to hide
weapons in this flimsy garb?” With an exasperated sigh, Esme
offered to strip naked if he didn't believe her, though she advised
him to check her quickly, for Ali was not the most patient of men.

As
she'd expected, the eunuch declined the honor. He checked for
concealed weapons by giving her body a few un-enthusiastic pats and,
grumbling all the while, let her pass. Naturally. What had the Vizier
to fear from a skinny little girl?

Now
Esme need only pray Ali was in the private chamber she headed for and
that he was still awake. It was only a bit after midnight, and he
often stayed up well into the early morning, either browbeating
exhausted counselors or amusing himself with an attractive object of
either gender. If the latter was the case, Esme hoped he'd chosen a
female this night. She had no idea what methods men used to enjoy
each other and was not eager at the moment for enlightenment. She'd
enough to keep clear in her mind without being distracted by new
forms of depravity.

A
generous Providence had granted her a reprieve, and she would make
noble use of it. She would get her revenge, but this time in a way
even Jason would have approved, for she would carry out his heroic
mission. Even Percival would be proud of her and greatly relieved
when his secret was put properly to work. It would be. She knew what
to do and was not afraid. She was the Red Lion's daughter, and before
she left her beloved country forever, she'd save it.

Though
Ali wouldn't believe her at first, he was too wise to discount her
accusations entirely. He'd investigate, and his spies would soon
discover the truth. In a very short time, Is-mal would find himself
in the hands of skilled torturers. Then he'd die horribly, as he
deserved, but her own hands would not be stained with his blood.
She'd be far away, lonely and unwanted, perhaps, but with her soul
wiped clean. In Albania, she might even be praised as a brave
heroine. That would be enough for her, Esme told herself. That and
satisfying visions of Ismal's slow, agonizing death.

These
agreeable fantasies sped her to the door of Ali'
s
private chamber. She was trying
to decide whether to knock politely or just creep in when she heard
Ismal's voice, sweet and

mellifluous
as always. With a silent oath, Esme sank down upon the cold floor to
wait. She hoped he'd not be all night.

“I
should hold my tongue,” Ismal was saying, “and not risk
your displeasure. Yet though you'll kill me for it. I must speak what
is in my heart. My love for you is too great to do otherwise.”

Ali
chuckled. “I do believe the English lord's beauty has addled
your wits, little cousin. The girl has to go. She should have gone
long ago, along with her half-brother. This is no time to annoy the
British. They're already testy about those villainous Parghiots I
slaughtered, and they're bound to give me trouble about the Suliots,
too. I'm going to have the Devil's own time softening them as it is.
I want our visitors safe in British custody before negotiations
begin.”

“They
won't negotiate at all if you give the girl a chance to poison their
minds first. You saw how she abused the English lord and his king.
Send her into exile among those she hates, expose her to their scorn,
and
you
will
become her enemy.”

“Yes,
a terrible thing that would be,” Ali answered. “I'm
shaking in my slippers at the thought of her displeasure. What
ghastly thing will she do, I wonder? Weep? Curse me? Stamp her tiny
foot? Allah, preserve me. It's too dreadful to contemplate, the wrath
of this little girl.” He roared with laughter.

Esme
scowled at the door.

“She
may seek revenge.” Ismal's voice betrayed no hint of
irritation. “She knows how badly you want English artillery and
advisers. She's also aware that the more liberal of the English
strive to turn their government against you. She can help them, and
they'll be happy to use her. It won't be hard for her to twist the
truth and make you appear a greater threat to the civilized world
than the Corsican, Bonaparte.”

Esme's
eyes widened. She'd never trusted Ismal. Never had she doubted he was
guilty. All the same, she could not believe the filth he uttered
—
or
that Ali remained quiet, as though he was seriously considering the
snake's warnings.

Yet
wasn't this the sort of threat Ali might heed? He was always quick to
imagine he was being persecuted. He also understood revenge. He was a
master of it, a most patient one. He never forgot an injury, though
he might wait half a century to collect payment. Damn, but Ismal knew
what he was doing; he played the Vizier's weaknesses as though they
were the strings of his
çiftelia.

Ali's
roar of laughter broke the silence. Evidently, he was not to be
played so easily. Esme relaxed.

“Really,
Ismal, you're most entertaining this evening,” the Vizier
chortled. “If I didn't know your sober habits, I'd think you
were drunk. Certainly you're blind. Perhaps she doesn't want to go.
But revenge? You forget the handsome English stallion. Do you think
he can't keep her mind off her grievances?”

“She
despises him.”

“Indeed.
That's why, of all the places she might have chosen, she took her
seat beside him. Very close beside him.”

Esme
winced.

“And
when I asked her whether his English sword struck slow and steady, or
quick and fierce, she turned the color of ripe cherries.”

“Any
maiden would blush at such speech,” Ismal said.

“A
maiden
wouldn't
have comprehended it or accused me of heeding filthy gossip.”

Esme
covered her hot face with her hands. She might have known Ali had
good reason for speaking so to her. She should have known she'd
betray herself to him. Everyone did.

“She
understood because she's felt his thrust
—
or
wants to,” Ali went on. “Her anger's only the fire of
love, as I explained to him. She's young, poor child. She hardly
comprehends the passion she feels for him. And, naturally, grief for
her father confuses her mind. She's like a wounded creature who
strikes out blindly at those who try to help her. But the English
lord will doctor her. I advised him how: with sweet words and a
gentle touch.”

Esme
closed her eyes. Sweet words. Gentle caresses. Not affection, but
“doctoring.” Manipulation.

“You
think he'll take your advice?” Ismal asked. “You think
this insolent nobleman will trouble himself to keep her quiet with
his lovemaking? Just for your sake
—
or
hers? You've extraordinary faith in a man everyone knows is a
whore.”'

“I
don't need faith,” came the confident answer. “I've paid
him well to make certain she goes with him willingly. It's what the
boy wants, you see, and the boy is the real problem, as the lord so
astutely recognizes.”

“The
boy? I do not
...”

A
short pause, then Ali laughed. “At last you perceive why your
generous offer was so coldly refused. The poor man had no choice,
with the boy there. What would happen, do you think, if that
intelligent lad told his elders that Lord Ee-dee-mund sold another
lord's niece to a heathen barbarian?”

“They'd
probably hang him,” Ismal answered softly. “Yet you
paid
him to do what he must do in any
case?”

“Ah,
there I had no choice.” Ali's voice was rueful. “The
man's abominably cunning. He said he couldn't sell her outright. On
the other hand, he pointed out, he couldn't help it if she ran away.
He said she's tried that before. I saw I'd better make certain she
didn't run away. So I offered him five hundred English pounds to wed
her. We settled at a thousand. It'll make the boy happy, and the
lord's in desperate need of money. For a thousand pounds, I think
he'd even marry
you.”
Ali
laughed again.

Esme
thrust her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. Ismal was
speaking again, but it was mere sound, drowned in the sea of
humiliated rage that engulfed her.

Don't
make me out to be noble.

Hadn't
she known from the start Varian's heart was black and selfish? Hadn't
he told her
—
as
Petro did
—
that
he'd lived by his wits for years, and on his charm and beauty? He'd
come for a chess piece worth a thousand pounds. Though he'd not got
the chess piece, his wits, charm, and beauty had got him the thousand
pounds directly.

He'd
also obtained a fine revenge for all the trouble Esme had given him.
He'd never wanted her; he'd only played a game. When she'd offered
herself, he'd declined
—
because
all he wanted was to torment her, to get even by making her fall in
love with him. He'd succeeded admirably. Ali had seen instantly how
besotted she was.

Varian
had used them all, used her infatuation, her cousin's loneliness,
Ali's fears and greed. Varian had turned their weaknesses to his own
profit. This man she'd thought stupid and childish had extorted a
thousand pounds from Ali Pasha
—
the
greatest miser in the Ottoman Empire—and turned the Red Lion's
daughter into a sniveling, mindless wanton who begged to be
dishonored.

Drawing
a deep breath, Esme forced herself to stand up and return the way
she'd come. It was best, she told herself, always best to know the
truth. No one wanted her. She was a joke to everyone. Very well. Let
them have their joke and all their lies and machinations. Let them
play their men's games. It was nothing to her. She was a woman. Now,
at last, she understood exactly what that meant. Jason should have
told her, long ago. But that was so like him. Always, he left out the
most important part.

SHORTLY
AFTER SUNRISE, Fejzi arrived to escort Varian to the Vizier. He found
Lord Edenmont broad awake, washed though not yet shaven, and touchy.

Varian's
troubled sleep had been punctuated by a series of dreams, each of
which had begun lewdly and ended in the most grisly fashion. In the
last, a naked Esme had held in one hand a bloodstained knife and in
the other a slimy piece of throbbing flesh. “You have no
heart,” she'd said, smiling. “No heart, no heart, no
heart.” He'd awakened to find his own still safe in his bosom,
hammering wildly. It set up another racket now at the unexpected and
thoroughly unwelcome summons.