The Lion's Daughter (38 page)

He
held her, lightly resting his chin on her head while he stroked her
back. Gradually, his quiet transmitted itself to her, and she began
to quiet as well. When at last the horrible sobbing eased, he found
his handkerchief, which he wordlessly gave her.

She'd
always hated crying. Until she'd met him, tears had been alien to
her, a contemptible weakness. Appalled with herself, she rubbed her
wet face vengefully, as though to punish it. “It is nothing,”
she told him, glaring at his lapel. “It was stupid. I have only
made myself look hideous.” She pulled away, but he wouldn't
release her.

“No,
Esme, that will not do, and I will not be driven mad, wondering what
the trouble is.”

His
gray eyes searched her face far too intently. It made her want to
squirm, which vexed her as much as crying had. “I told you it
was nothing,” she said. “I am tired, that is all. I am
weary with pretending to be a lady.”

“You
don't have to pretend anything
—
not
on my account.”

“Indeed.
I might have done as I pleased, and looked a fool and a barbarian to
your countrymen, and made them pity you while they laughed at me. You
know as well as I how they were all waiting for me to err
—
to
shame you and my cousin. That is why you kept away until this day,”
she accused. “For one day, at least you hoped I might contrive
not to disgrace you.”

Varian
looked down at her clenched fists. “I see,” he said.
“What a silly creature you are, to be sure.”

“
Silly?”
She dug her nails into his hands and
pulled at his

fingers,
but she might as well have clawed at iron manacles for all the good
it did.

“You
know I'm stronger than you,” he said. “Even if I

weren't,
you wouldn't get far if I did release you. It would be a deal more
productive to scratch my eyes out, don't you think?”

Esme
knew
—
or
the reasoning part of her did, at least
—
that he was goading her. It
didn't matter. Pure, mindless fury coursed through her.

“I
hate you!” she cried. “I
would
scratch out your eyes
—
but
then you would be blind as
well as stupid and crazy
—
and
l have no one but
you!”
She
slammed her fist against his chest, making him gasp. “I wish I
were dead!”

“No,
you don't.” Before she could strike again, Varian i aught her
hand and kissed it. “You wish
/
were dead. Or had
Hiver
been born.”

Releasing
her hand, he lifted her from his lap and stood her before him. “Why
don't you look about you? Perhaps you'll And something larger and
harder to hit me with.” He looked inward the washstand. 'The
stone pitcher, for instance. I daresay a sharp rap with that would
put me out for several hours.”

Taken
entirely aback, Esme followed his gaze. “The pitcher?”
When she turned back to him, his eyes were glittering strangely. “It
would break your skull.”

“Oh,
I much doubt that. You'd want an axe, I expect, to do die job
properly. English lords, you know. Skulls of oak.”

She
let out a heavy sigh. Her rage had dissipated as swiftly as it had
arisen, and she could not call it back, badly as she needed it. Anger
was so easy, so familiar. It made her feel strong. Despair made her
weak. “Oh, Varian. I cannot do that. You know I cannot.”

“I
suppose not. I'm a pitiable enough specimen as it is, and all you've
got, unfortunately. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Only stupid,
crazy Varian—who abandoned you for near three weeks to
strangers. All for propriety, which makes no sense to you, because
you are not a hypocrite, as I am. And you're angry as well, because
you've had no say, no choice, all these weeks.”

Esme
stiffened.

His
glittering silver gaze traveled slowly from the top of her head to
the toes of her silk slippers. “Now I am to be punished,”
he added softly. “On my wedding night. Tears first, to frighten
me half to death
—”

“You
were not frightened,” she said. “Do not make a game of
me. And do not accuse me of weak, womanish tricks. As though such
things could ever move you. How many women have wept on your account?
And how many more will weep, I wonder.”

“Was
it on my account, love?”

“No!”
She turned away, toward the window, dark now. “Oh, what is me
use? Yes. Yes
!
Because of you.”

His
hand closed round her wrist, and he drew her round again to face him.
“That's what I suspected. That's what frightened me. That's my
punishment, too. Lord, I hate it when you cry. Even when you look as
though you might.” He caught her other hand and gently pulled
her nearer. “But you don't hate me, do you, sweet?”

“Yes.
No.”

He
studied her left hand for a long moment, while he lightly traced the
gold band circling her finger. Then, bringing the unresisting hand to
his lips, he kissed the soft flesh of her palm. Esme trembled, with
longing, with fear. To give her body was easy. She'd done so gladly
and would again, if it were only that. But to give all her will, all
she was
...

She
drew her hand away.

Varian
looked up. His eyes still glittered in that troubling

way,
but darker now. “Will you make me beg, Esme?” he asked,
so very softly. He slipped his hands about her waist. I've missed you
dreadfully.”

“Don't.”
She didn't try to push him away. She'd no right to deny him. She was
his wife. It was her fault she was. Yet she couldn't bear to be made
drunk and helpless. She was lost, and in his arms, maddened by his
lovemaking, she'd never find her way.

“I
know,” he said. “I knew long before you did. To take me
as a lover was merely dishonor. But to take me as a husband
...
Ah, well. That is very
dangerous.”

She
swallowed a gasp. It was not fair that he could read her heart so
easily, when his was the darkest mystery to her.

“I
know what I am, Esme,” he said. “But you gave yourself to
me
,
and
now I need you. Beyond bearing, and so, beyond conscience.” His
hands tightened on her waist. “And I shall win you all over
again, this night, however I must. Without scruple.”

Esme
understood the glitter then, saw the danger in it, but before she
could back away, he brought his leg behind hers, polling her off
balance. She stumbled toward him, and he fell back with her onto the
bed.

She
fought him in blind panic, aware only that he must not win, not this
night, not so easily. She needed to find some part of herself that
was still truly her, not what he'd made her. She couldn't surrender,
not yet.

But
he was too quick, too clever, too strong, and in moments she lay
beneath him, gasping and filled with despair because the hard weight
upon her was so warm and achingly familiar. She'd

not
realized until this moment how deeply, terribly lonely she'd been.
She hated herself for the loneliness, just as she hated her
self
for wanting his shelter, though
it was a prison.

His
hand closed over her breast, and she wanted to weep. “No,
Varian,” she begged.

“Yes,
Varian,” he returned in soft command. He pressed a warm kiss to
her temple and made a path of lingering kisses to her ear and down to
her throat. Her pulse was racing, an instant betrayal. He found the
throbbing place and lingered there, and she felt his triumph in that
long, savoring kiss. She felt it in his touch, lazily kneading her
tautened breast, while yearning heat coursed through her, deep, to
ache in her womb.

“Yes,”
he repeated. “Because you want me. Tell me.”

She
bit her lip.

He
slid the gown down past her shoulders and down, exposing her tight,
aching breasts. 'Tell me.” He teased with his hands and with
his tongue, and the slow fire built, against her will, against her
reason.

“No,”
she moaned, stirring helplessly under his caresses. The gown slid
lower, to her hips. His mouth and hands followed, lazily,
deliberately.

“Yes.”
There was laughter in his voice, and though her heart, surely, was
breaking, she wanted to laugh, too. Madness.

“No,”
she gasped. “I will die first.”

“Then
you shall surely die, love
...
beautifully.”

He
moved down over her, and Esme trembled as his head bent. The silken
tendrils of his hair brushed her skin, making her shiver. Then soft
kisses heated her belly, and she strangled a moan.

She
clenched and unclenched her hands, but it was no use. Closing her
eyes, she let her fingers slide into his hair. She wanted to crush
him to her, but she would not. He knew he was torturing her and
reveled in it. But she wouldn't give in, no, not so easily.

Lightly
she combed her fingers through his hair, as though she needed no
more, as though her muscles were not thrumming with tension. As
though she weren't desperate to have him inside her.

Then
his mouth moved lower, and a rapturous shock vibrated through her,
wrenching a cry from deep within. In that hammering moment, her will
swept away in a stream of delirium.
“Varian.
No
...
oh,
no.”
She dug her nails into his scalp and
cursed in every tongue she knew. It was not her own voice but a
demon's, low and harsh. His wicked mouth and tongue set demons
dancing within her. They answered to his will, not hers. She had
none.

“Varian
...
no
...
no
...
oh,
please?”

He
lifted his head and laughed.

His
fingers glided up and down her inner thighs, and she felt his rigid
flesh throb hot against her skin. She wanted to scream.

“Say
yes,” he commanded. “Tell me.”

“Yes.
Yes. I want you.”

“Yes,”
he repeated. “I want you.” And he drove himself Into her
at last.

VARIAN
HAD BEEN dimly aware of the rain beginning, hours before. He'd heard
the soft pattering in the world be-yond while he had caressed his
bride and roused her again. It had been again, and again, because she
made him hungry,

fearfully
so. He'd been miserable without her these last infernal weeks, and
utterly wretched when he'd found her weeping and understood he was
the cause. She'd come to her senses at last, poor darling. Too late.

“It
can't be undone,” Varian had told her. But not until after
they'd made delirious love, when he'd given and taken pleasure,
showing her how it was, how it would be, for both of them. “I
won't let you go. I won't let you draw away from me. In this, I'll
always win, Esme. Believe you've sold your soul to the Devil, if you
like, because in this I shall be the very Devil.”

“Only
wait,” she'd warned, stubborn as ever. “Only wait until I
become accustomed.”

He'd
laughed. “I shall see you never become 'accustomed,' my lady.”
Then he'd taken her again, happily. He'd been wickedly happy from the
moment the clergyman had united them. When Varian yearned for her,
Esme would be there, his, and it was right and proper, the bargain
solemnly sealed before God and two score mortal witnesses.

Now
he looked toward the window, where the gloomy morning loomed. His
hand glided over her smooth shoulders and along her arm, pausing
briefly to stroke the scar more tenderly yet. She was oblivious. She
slept trustingly in his arms.

“Dear
God, how I love you,” he murmured. “And damn me if I know
what I'm to do.”

He'd
ten pounds left to his name, nowhere to find more on this wretched
island, and they had the house only for a week. He'd heard nothing
from Sir Gerald, though the letter had gone more than a fortnight
ago. Percival must be taken back, but where? Otranto? Venice? Where
was his blasted father?

And
Esme
—
where
would he take her? They could live in Italy, perhaps. For a while at
least. One could get by on so little, and Varian did have ways. But
no, not those ways, not any more, not with a wife. He'd not drag her
through that sordid existence.

Nonetheless,
they must go somewhere. He couldn't keep her on this curst rock
forever
—
not
even a week, not with Ismal so perilously near. Corfu's governor was
not at all easy about Albania. The populace was being armed. Some
ships had been seized, but who knew how many others had reached their
destinations? Esme must be got away, far away. That much was clear.