The Lion's Daughter (59 page)

“
If
you was angry, you should have
come and quarreled with me. Never held your tongue before. Keep you,
indeed,” the old lady muttered. “I'd as soon keep a flock
of jackdaws.”

“
I
know, Grandmama. I am
impossible. But if you wish to scold m
e,
at least let the men go to bed.
They are both weary, but too proud to tell you so.”

The
dowager considered her son, seated next to her by the fire, then
Varian, who was perched on the sofa arm near Esme. “Not a
pretty sight,” she grumbled, “neither of you. Get along

to
bed, then.” She nodded curtly at Percival. “You, too. And
no dawdling behind to listen at the keyhole. You've done enough of
that for one lifetime, I think.” Percival flushed.

Varian
fixed his cool gray gaze upon the dowager. “I trust you meant
that as a compliment, my lady. Every one of us has reason
to be grateful to your grandson.”
Only by the grace of God,” she snapped. “Things might
have turned out different
—”

“But
they didn't. Even if they had, no reasonable human being can fault
him for trying to do his duty.” He rose and approached the boy.
“Your uncle's story ought to speak for itself. Since it
evidently hasn't, for some parties, I shall elucidate. We are all
deeply grateful, Percival, for your courage and intelligence.”

Percival's
flush deepened. “Oh, dear. Not
—
oh,
but I didn't That is to say, I did lie to you and keep secrets
—
and
really, I'm very sorry.”

“I
cannot imagine how you might have done otherwise.” Varian put
out his hand.

The
boy's chagrin eased into relief, and he shook the offered hand.

Thank
you,
Esme silently told her husband.
Even she hail forgotten about Percival. She, too, needed reminding
how much she owed her cousin: thanks as well as apologies, for she
had misjudged him, repeatedly.

She
heard her father echo Varian's sentiments, and her grandmother
grumbling that the boy had done his best, after all, and a body
couldn't ask more than that. All Esme could say would be redundant.
Instead, she moved to her cousin and gave him a crushing hug.

Rather
shyly, he hugged her in return. “I was monstrous worried last
night,” he confided softly to her. “But I knew his
lordship would find you. Mama told me he was much more intelligent
than he pretended. She said
—”
He blinked twice, then went very
still. As she stepped away from him, Esme noticed that Jason and her
grandmother had fallen silent as well. They were watching Varian.

He'd
taken the chess pieces out of the travel bag and was setting the last
of them upon the low table near the sofa. When he straightened, he
returned their stares widi a blankly innocent one.

“I
thought you was tired,” said the dowager. “You ain't
meaning to play now, are you?”

“I
loathe chess,” he said. “It is tediously complicated.
Simply looking at the set makes me frantic.”

“You
don't need to like it,” Jason said impatiently. “All you
need to do is sell it.”

Varian
raised his eyebrows. “The St. Georges do not engage in
trade.
At any rate, I can't possibly sell
Percival's inheritance.”

“My
—
oh
dear. But it isn't. It's Esme's dowry, sir. Mama said so, and wrote
it in her will.”

Varian
focused on Esme. He didn't utter a word, didn't need to. She didn't
so much as look at the set. “It has nothing to do with me,”
she said. “The dowry goes to the husband, to dispose of as he
chooses.” “As I did, last night,” said Varian. “I
promised it to Sir Gerald.
He kept his end of the bargain,
only didn't live to enjoy the reward. Therefore, like the rest of his
property, it must go to his heir.”

Percival
swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir, but I
—
that
is, Papa shouldn't have needed to be bribed. You mustn't think
“
He blinked, several times. “Mama
wanted Cousin Esme have it.” Only to be sure she got a husband.
Your mama had no way of knowing Esme would get a husband all by
herself. Otherwise she'd have left the set to you.” Percival
started to protest, then gave up, perilously near tears.
“
Th-thank you, sir. It
is very
—”
“Ol
d,” Varian
finished briskly. “Why don't you see if you can find
a
proper container for it? You
don't want to wrap it up in Esme's
underthings again, I hope.”
The boy promptly fled. Just before the door closed behind him, Esme
heard his choked sob. Her own throat tightened. She noticed her
father's eyes had become suspiciously bright, beside him, the dowager
sniffed, for Varian had reduced even that tough old lady to tears.
Two tears, to be precise, which she swatted away indignantly.

Because
she understood, as they all did, what the gift meant to Percival.
He'd nothing of his beloved mama's to remember her by. His father had
seen to that. All that remained of Diana's possessions was the chess
set. Worth a fortune.

Brushing
away her own tears, Esme met her husband's bored gaze.

His
lordship yawned. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “It's
been a
long
day. I had better say good night.”

YOU
MAKE ME feel ashamed,” Esme said.

Varian
was leaning back upon the pillows, his hands clasped behind his head.
Through half-closed eyes he studied his wife, who sat cross-legged on
the bed beside him. “I suppose you can't help it,” he
said. “I am so noble, so inexpressibly saintly. Naturally, you
adore me. Worship the ground I walk upon. I am, after all, the great
light of the heavens, your beautiful god.”

Her
wistful green gaze traveled from his face down over his naked torso,
then back to her folded hands. She sighed.
“It
is true. This is how I feel.”

“Sometimes.
In your rare moments of tranquility.”

“It
is not easy to be tranquil about you. I look at you, then I look at
myself
...”
She
hesitated.

“And?”

She
made a small, helpless gesture. “I do not understand why God
would put together two people so different.”

“You
think the Almighty has made some sort of ghastly mistake and, being
all-wise, must eventually correct it?”

She
moved uneasily. “Yes, I think this sometimes, and it makes me
anxious.”

“It
makes you
crazy
sometimes,”
he corrected. “It's made you think idiotic things: that I don't
want to live with you, for instance, and that I don't want your
children. However, I mean to make you see the error of your ways.”

She
lifted her head. “Then you will take me to Mount Eden?”

He
nodded.

“And
—
and
we shall make a family?” She blushed.

He
shrugged. “I have no choice. You find all prevention methods
thoroughly revolting. I shall not wound your tender sensibilities
again
—
or
my own,” he added half to himself.

“But
do you
want
them?”
she persisted. “They may
—
it
is possible they will be like me. I would try my best to prevent
that, but there is no recipe. One cannot make children as one does a
poultice.”

His
mouth twitched. “Are you trying to persuade me or talk me out
of it?”

“I
thought perhaps, when you imagined children, you would picture sons
in your own image. Men often do,” she said defensively.

He
nodded. “I've imagined that. It fills me with inutterable
horror. Fortunately, it is scientifically impossible, I believe, to
get children
exactly
like
me, even if I could make them all by myself, which is an even greater
scientific impossibility. Since I must make them with you
...”

He
eyed her consideringly. “You're rather small, and horribly
bad-tempered. Still, you did promise to grow, and on the whole, I
tend to find your temper exciting. The shouting and vi-tuperation, I
mean,” he clarified. “Not the homicidal or suicidal
aspects. Fortunately, if I keep you very busy breeding and at-tending
to my every whim, you won't have time for violence.” “Do
not tease.” She nudged him with her knee. “I am not so
savage as that.”

“I
only worry that you'll find domesticity boring.” “Tsk.
You do not understand.” She edged nearer. “There are
other ways besides battle and blood feud to test one's courage. This
day you fought like a brave warrior. Yet all the day
s
and weeks before you fought as
well, a greater struggle in many ways.” She laid her hand over
his heart. “That is the battle
I truly wished to fight, Varian
...
by
your side.” The touch warmed him. The words made him ache. “I
know,” he said gently. “Unfortunately, I was determined
on martyrdom. I went after redemption with a vengeance
—
trying
to prove myself worthy, I suppose, of the wonderful creature I
married.” She drew her hand away. “I am not wonderful.
Ask my father. All the same, I can
—”

“Wonderful,”
he said firmly. “Why do you find it so easy to face harsh
truths and so hard to accept the pleasant ones? When
I've anything tender or
sentimental to say, you oblige me to camouflage it with witticisms
and silly jokes. I wouldn't mind, if only you didn't keep missing the
punch line.” “The point of the joke, you mean?” The
point of everything.” Sitting up fully, he took her hands in
his. “I love you,” he said,
“as
you are.” “
Nay, you need
not say
—”
“L
isten to me,” he
said. She bowed her head.

“Do
you recall the night on the way to Poshnja, when I said
you
were
the
flame and I the moth?” he asked.

She
started to shake her head, Albanian style, then man
aged
awkward nod. “Yes, I
recall.”

The
small gesture, toward him, toward the England that
was
h
er
home
now, nearly undid him. But he was determined make her understand, and
believe, fully. “I
said you were always bursting
into flame.” He twined his fingers with hers. “You set
things on fire inside me. Wishes, dreams, needs I'd hidden so deep I
hardly realized they existed. They were like dead wood, kindling. You
set the spark to them.”

She
kept her gaze fixed on their twined hands. 'That night, you meant
desire.”

“Desire
drove me, yes. At the time, that was all I comprehended. It kept me
with you when my old self urged me to run away as I always had, from
every difficulty. From tomorrow. From life itself, I think.”

“You
are not the only one who has wished to run away,” she said
guiltily. “Yet you have not done so once in the time I have
known you, while I have, several times.”

“Not
to escape your problems, but to meet them head on. To fight for
honor, independence. Last night, this morning, you were fighting for
your rights, your marriage. For me.”

“I
caused you distress, all the same.”

“Perhaps
that was necessary.” His soft chuckle made her look up. “It
seems I can only learn the hard way,” he explained. “Because
of you, I've learned I can fight not only unscrupulous rivals, but
circumstances as well. Whether I want to or not. Mostly not, it would
seem. I've been kicking and screaming the whole way. Because it
has
been horrible, Esme.”

“Yes,
horrible,” she sadly agreed.

“And
glorious,”
he
added. “As you are. As life is. You think the Almighty made a
mistake. I think some angel sent you.” He released her hands
and, smiling, stroked her cheek. “One who'd evidently read
Childe Harold
and
decided it would do better transformed to comedy.”

“
Childe
Harold?”
Esme moved his hand
away. “You speak of Lord Byron's poem? The one about Albania?”

“Albania
is only part of a long tale about an unhappy wanderer. The night in
Bari when Percival lied about the black queen, he'd been reading the
first canto.”

Closing
his eyes, Varian quoted,
“
'For he through Sin's long
labyrinth had run,
/
Nor made atonement when he did
amiss,
/
Had
sigh'd to many though he loved but one,
/
And that loved one, alas! could
ne'er be his.'
“
He bent to whisper in her ear,
“Who does that sound like to you?”