The Lion's Daughter E-Book

Loretta Chase

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 614

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1992

Beschreibung

"Live the romance. Read Loretta Chase" –Christina DoddNew York Times bestselling, award-winning author Loretta Chase's first full length Regency Historical Romance!Gorgeous, stubborn Esme Brentmor, daughter of a disgraced lord, is used to a wild, dangerous life among the tribes of Albania, to whom her father is the legendary, controversial Red Lion whose death she's courageously vowed to avenge –even if it leads to her own. Instead, her quest finds her rescued by the most unlikely (and very reluctant) hero!Lazy and spoiled, Lord Varian St. George has gambled away his heritage and lives on his considerable looks, charm and wits. All he wants is the good life, and instead, he finds himself in rough country, with a tempestuous whirlwind of a female who's as savage as he's civilized. How did this termagant become his responsibility? And how can he escape?! Yet as he and Esme plunge headlong into even more peril, he may surprise even his own jaded self and become the man that Esme (foolishly) believes he is!

Leseprobe

The Lion's Daughter

Loretta Chase

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Author’s Note

Also by Loretta Chase

About the Author

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Lion’s Daughter

Copyright © 1992 by Loretta Chekani

Ebook ISBN: 9781617508554

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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http://www.nyliterary.com

Prologue

Otranto, Italy Mid-September 1818

Jason Brentmor put away the note his sister-in-law had given him. His glance swept unseeingly across the blue Adriatic, glistening in the early autumn sun, and around the stone terrace of his brother’s palazzo until he met Diana’s blue gaze. Then he smiled.

“I’m relieved to learn my mother hasn’t gone soft in her old age,” he said. “Doesn’t waste a word, does she? You’d never know she hadn’t clapped eyes on me in twenty-four years. To her, I’m still the reckless boy who gambled away his inheritance and ran away to live with the barbarous Turks.”

“The prodigal son, rather,” came Diana’s amused response.

“Indeed. I’ve merely to creep to her on hands and knees and beg forgiveness, and I and my half-breed daughter will be restored to the bosom of the Brentmors. What on earth did you write her, love?”

“Only that I’d met up with you in the spring in Venice. I enclosed a copy of my new will.” Diana gestured toward the elaborate chess set that stood on a table near her chaise longue. “The set was yours once. Now it shall be Esme’s dowry.”

“That was my wedding gift to you,” he said.

“I’d rather had you,” she answered. “But we spoke all our regrets in Venice, didn’t we? And we had three glorious weeks to make up for it.”

“Oh, Diana, I do wish—”

She looked away. “I hope you will not become maudlin, Jason. I really cannot abide it. We’ve both paid a high price for our mistakes. Still, we had Venice, and you’re here now. The past is done. I don’t want our children to go on paying for it, as though they existed in some ghastly melodrama. Your daughter needs a proper home and a husband—in England, where she belongs. The set’s been appraised. It will bring her a large sum.”

“She doesn’t need—”

“Of course she does, if you want her to marry happily. With the dowry and your mother’s backing in society, Esme may take her pick of eligible bachelors. She’s eighteen, Jason. She can’t remain in Albania to be shut up in a Turkish harem. You said as much yourself. Now, take her home and make up with your mama, and don’t argue with a dying woman.”

Jason knew she was dying. He’d suspected it by the time he left Venice; otherwise, he’d not have attempted a second visit to Italy so soon. In the interval, his golden-haired Diana had faded to a wraith, her graceful hands so sadly frail, the blue veins throbbing weakly under nearly transparent flesh. Yet she was determined to appear strong. Proud and stubborn, as she’d always been.

He moved away from the stone railing and, looking away from her still-beautiful face, took up the black queen from the chess set. The minute gems of the elaborately carved Renaissance costume sparkled in the sunlight. Though the chess set was supposedly more than two hundred years old, it was complete and in fine condition.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take Esme back as soon as I can.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I can’t quite yet,” he said. “But soon, I hope.” He met her reproachful blue gaze. “I have obligations, love.”

“More important than those to your family?”

He put back the queen, then moved to Diana’s side and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. He hated to disappoint her, but he couldn’t lie to her, either. “The Albanians took me in when I had nothing,” he said. “They gave me a loving wife who bore me a strong, brave daughter. They gave my life a worthy purpose, gave me a chance to do some good. Now my adopted country needs my help.”

“Ah,” she said softly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Your life’s been there for more than twenty years.”

“If it were just the usual thing, I’d not hesitate to leave. I know I’ve put it off too long, and that’s hardly fair to Esme, as you say. But Albania is on the brink of chaos at present.”

She looked up at him.

“There’s always unrest,” he explained. “Lately, though, the uprisings show a pattern, as though they were being orchestrated. I’ve captured a store of English weapons—stolen, it turns out, and smuggled. There’s definitely someone behind it, someone of considerable cunning who, unfortunately, appears to have an equally adept supplier.”

“A conspiracy, Uncle Jason?”

Jason and Diana turned toward the doorway, where her twelve-year-old son Percival stood, his green eyes glowing with excitement. Jason had forgotten about the boy, who had discreetly withdrawn more than an hour ago with the excuse of trying on the Albanian costume his uncle had brought him.

“Gracious, how dashing you look,” said his mother. “And how well it fits.”

Indeed, the snug trousers with their distinctive braiding fit perfectly, as did the short black jacket Percival wore over the loose cotton shirt.

“I had it made to Esme’s size. It’s what she usually wears. She’s a terrible hoyden, I’m afraid.” Jason ruffled the boy’s dark red hair. “Do you know, at the moment, you might pass as her twin. Same hair, eyes.”

“Your hair and eyes,” Diana said.

Percival moved away and, with typical boyish disregard for life and limb, jumped onto the terrace wall. Far below him, the sea lapped lazily at the jagged rocks of the shore.

“I was never so scrawny,” Jason answered, smiling. “It’s not so bad for a boy, but most exasperating for Esme. Because she’s so small and slight, others tend to forget she’s a grown woman—and she objects very strongly to being treated like a child. “

“I wish I could meet her,” said Percival. “I like tomboys. The other sort of girls are so ghastly silly. Does she play chess?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps, when we return to England, you’ll teach her.”

“Then you are returning, Uncle? I’m most pleased to hear it. That’s what Mama wishes, you know.” Perched on the wall, his legs dangling over the side, Percival squinted against the sun at the faint line of peaks barely visible on the opposite shore: Albania’s coast. “Every fine day,” he went on, “Mama and I come out to wave to you and Esme, and pretend we can see you waving back. Of course, we don’t tell anyone, do we, Mama? Not even Lord Edenmont. He thinks we’re waving to the sailors.”

“Edenmont?” Jason repeated incredulously. “Not Varian St. George, surely? What the devil was the fellow doing here, Diana?”

“He lives here,” she said with a faint smile. “You know of him, then?”

“I got an earful in Venice. He was one of Byron’s circles. Left England to escape his creditors—and proceeded to cut a swathe through the contessas, not to mention—” Jason recollected Percival’s presence. He perched himself on the chaise longue and whispered fiercely, “The man’s a parasite, a libertine, a wastrel. What do you mean ‘lives here’?”

“I mean he lives upon my husband.”

“A parasite, as I said. Hasn’t a groat to his name—”

“Then obviously he must rely upon others. I think of Lord Edenmont as ornamental ivy, supporting itself upon an otherwise vulgar and boring public building—that is to say, Gerald, and others like him. Varian is very ornamental. He is darkly beautiful in that brooding way so fatal to feminine sensibilities…and sense.”

She glanced at Jason’s face and a ghost of a laugh escaped her. “Not to mine, darling. All I feel for him is pity and, occasionally, gratitude. If Lord Edenmont has sunk to playing footboy to an ailing woman and nursemaid to her precocious son, that is his lordship’s misfortune. Percival and I are glad of the company, are we not dear?” she said in more carrying tones.

“He’s a terrible chess player. Otherwise he’s quite intelligent,” Percival said judiciously. “Besides, he amuses Mama.”

Jason took her hand. “Does he?”

“More important, he’s kind to Percival,” she whispered. “But my son needs you, Jason. Gerald loathes him. I fear that, when I’m gone—”

“Papa’s coming!” Percival cried. “The carriage has come around the turning.” He scrambled down from the wall. “I’ll run down to meet him, shall I?” Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed his uncle’s hand, shook it, and dashed away.

Jason knelt beside Diana. “I love you,” he said.

Her frail arms went round his shoulders. “Go now,” she said. “Don’t let your brother find you here and spoil it for us. I love you, darling, and I’m so proud of you. Do what you must—only try, will you, to hurry back to England with Esme?”

Jason swallowed and nodded.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said firmly. “Think how lucky we were to have our time together in Venice. You’ve made me happy, truly.”

His eyes misting, he embraced her. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, because she’d already given it. And he didn’t say goodbye, because he couldn’t bear it. He simply kissed her one last time, then left.

Not wishing to worry his mama, Percival didn’t tell her he’d become a spy. Never in his twelve years had he encountered a man he could truly admire—until he met his Uncle Jason. From respect to hero worship was but an instant’s leap—a leap Percival made the moment he heard his uncle speak of uprisings, smuggling, and conspiracy. With some vaguely formed notion of secretly passing on valuable information to his uncle, Percival began to skulk about Otranto or—when inclement weather or late hours confined him indoors—his own house, where he eavesdropped shamelessly, searching for clues.

Like most persons who look for trouble, Percival found it.

Three nights after Jason’s visit, the boy stood on the narrow wrought iron balcony outside his father’s study window, peering through the slit between the drapes. Since the window was not quite closed, Percival could hear the conversation clearly.

His father’s visitor may well have been Greek as he claimed, but he was not a merchant, and he had most certainly not come to play chess, as Papa had pretended. What Mr. Risto wanted was an immense quantity of British rifles and smaller quantities of other sorts of weapons and ammunition. Papa replied that smuggling such merchandise was becoming more difficult, and Mr. Risto answered that his master was well aware of this. Then he emptied out a good-sized bag of gold coins onto Papa’s desk. Without batting an eyelash, Papa scribbled something on a piece of paper and, after explaining the code’s meaning, gave it to Mr. Risto. But Mr. Risto shook his head and said it wouldn’t do. It seemed he didn’t entirely trust Papa to keep his part of the bargain. This made Papa very angry.

Mr. Risto wanted a token of good faith, and nothing but the chess set would do. Papa answered that the chess set had been in the family for generations and was worth several times the value of the weapons. Furthermore, he was deeply affronted by this sudden mistrust after months of doing business with Mr. Risto’s master, Ismal. The debate continued until, finally, Mr. Risto said he’d settle for one chess piece. When Papa objected, Mr. Risto began to throw the coins back into the bag. Very vexed, Papa snatched up the black queen, unscrewed the bottom, twisted up the piece of paper, stuffed it inside, and gave it to Mr. Risto.

Mr. Risto promptly became cordial again, took Papa’s hand, and promised to return the chess piece when the merchandise reached Albania. Then the two men left the room.

British weapons. Smuggling. Albania. This, of course, was quite impossible, Percival told himself as he stared blindly into the vacant study. He’d dreamt the whole thing and was at this moment sound asleep in his own bed.

Percival succeeded in convincing himself that what he’d seen and heard was all a dream until the following afternoon, when his father had the entire household searching for the black queen, which he claimed had inexplicably disappeared.

Chapter 1

Otranto, Italy

Late September 1818

Varian St. George stood at the terrace wall and gazed across the water. The sea breeze lolled lazily about him, scarcely ruffling the gleaming dark curls at his forehead. Like a sea of blue flame under the fiery autumn sun, the Adriatic inched toward the faint line of peaks on the opposite shore. In his fancy these were mountains of ice the sea strove to melt and draw into its depths. Always the blue flames clawed at them, yet they stood, impervious, as impenetrable as the vast Ottoman Empire they guarded.

Lord Byron claimed the world’s most beautiful women could be found there. Perhaps this was so. Yet it seemed an overly long way to go, even for Aphrodite herself. Certainly, Lord Edenmont had no need to seek so far for beauties. Women sought the twenty-eight-year-old baron endlessly, and he felt certain there must be quite enough women in Western Europe to suffice even the greediest of men.

This evening, for instance, he had an appointment with the dark-eyed wife of a banker, and that was as far into the future as he needed or cared to think. The result of the meeting was hardly in question. He would pretend to believe the signora’s virtuous protestations for about an hour or perhaps less—depending upon how long she liked to play these scenes. Then they would do exactly as they’d both intended to do in the first place.

Lord Edenmont’s mind, at the moment, was not upon the signora, but the family that had fed and housed him all summer.

Lady Brentmor’s ashes had been scattered over the Adriatic a week ago. Holding her son’s hand, she’d quietly passed away on the day the household had been frantically searching for a valuable chess piece.

Though Varian had been told she was incurably ill, her death had shocked and distressed him. Despite her increasing frailty, she had never truly seemed an invalid. Now he suspected she’d lived these last months on sheer strength of will, and that entirely for Percival’s sake. Still, she hadn’t kept the truth from her son. It was the boy, in fact, who’d explained Lady Brentmor’s rules to Varian very early in their acquaintance.

“Mama says she’s not afraid to die,” he’d told Varian. “What she can’t abide, though, is for everyone to be gloomy and anxious about her. And I do believe she’s right. If we’re sad, we make her feel sad, and it’s so much healthier for her to feel cheerful, isn’t it?” Giving Varian a gravely assessing look he’d added, “I wasn’t quite prepared to like you at first, but you make Mama laugh, and you read with a great deal more expression than Papa or I. If you like, I shall teach you how to play chess properly.”

Thus, simply because Varian amused Lady Brentmor and provided distraction from her pain, Percival was prepared to like him. Varian found this touching, since he knew the boy thought him a hopeless idiot. The boy, however, considered his father an even greater idiot and clearly didn’t like him, which Varian felt was proof of both superior intelligence and taste.

Having apparently discovered long ago that his father detested him, Percival returned the favor by politely disregarding his sire. The boy possessed his mother’s affection, which had been enough for him. Until now.

Not that Percival’s unhappy family situation was Varian’s problem. He’d never been fond of children, especially precocious adolescents like Percival. He did not want to pity the boy, or even like him. Unfortunately, he reminded Varian of his younger brothers. Percival possessed both Damon’s genius for getting into scrapes and Gideon’s talent for soberly and logically explaining them away.

Now and then, when Varian thought of the siblings he’d abandoned, he experienced a twinge of something like regret. Lately he felt the same disagreeable twinges on Percival’s account. With Lady Brentmor’s death, Sir Gerald had begun belittling and berating his son relentlessly. This behavior would have been unpleasant enough in any circumstances. Coming immediately upon the loss of an adored mother, it was unconscionably cruel. Still, the world was a cruel place, wasn’t it?

Varian took out his pocket watch. Ordinarily, he didn’t rise from his bed before noon, but yesterday he’d taken Percival out of Sir Gerald’s way, on a long ramble through the Castle of Otranto, then the Cathedral. Exhausted, Varian had made an abnormally early bedtime, and woke at dawn as a result.

He told himself it was just as well. He’d join Sir Gerald at breakfast and announce his plans for departure. Perhaps he’d try Naples next. Not that he had enough money to get there. Still, he had traveled through half of Italy with no funds. He possessed an ancient title, a handsome face and figure, and a devastating charm. These, he’d early learned, were nearly as useful as ready money.

Luckily for Lord Edenmont, the world was filled with social climbers like Sir Gerald, who, despite the title his father had bought, was a tradesman still. Like so many other jumped-up Cits, however, he was a snob. By dining with an aristocrat or two now and then, he created the illusion that he traveled in elite circles. It was never difficult to find a hard-up aristocrat willing to consume a free meal.

Varian, more hard-up than most, was willing to consume a great deal more. He’d even condescended to become a house guest. He ate Sir Gerald’s food, drank his wine, slept in his luxurious guest chamber, and permitted the baronet’s servants to wait upon him. In return, Varian allowed Sir Gerald to drop his ancient name as often as he wished.

It was a pity to give up so convenient a berth before one was obliged to. Sir Gerald would be returning to England soon, anyhow. To leave now would hardly improve Varian’s lot…and certainly not Percival’s, drat him. What would become of the boy after Varian—his only friend, apparently—was gone?

Resolutely banishing Percival’s plight to the further recesses of his mind, Varian headed for the breakfast room.

Durrës, Albania

From a distance, the Durrës house seemed a ramshackle heap of stones piled upon a ledge overlooking the Adriatic. It was smaller than their previous abodes, comprising but two tiny rooms: one to live in, one to store supplies in. To Esme Brentmor, it was a beautiful house. In all her peripatetic life, this was the first time she’d lived upon the sea.

The Adriatic was not as richly blue, perhaps, as the Ionian, but then, it was not so tame. In summer, the Etesian breezes roused it. In autumn and winter, violent southerly gales drove themselves to furious frenzies, trying to tear the house apart. In vain. Though the crooked little structure seemed about to tumble to pieces at the next light breeze, it was as solid as the ledge upon which it stood, defying gales and blistering summer heat with equal aplomb.

The sea brought them fresh fish nearly all year round. A short distance from the ledge, Esme’s garden thrived in surprisingly fertile soil. It was the first she’d been able to tend for more than one season, and the most generous in supplying maize, alliums, and herbs. Even the chickens, in their own irritable way, were happy.

At the moment, Esme was not. She sat cross-legged upon the hard ledge, her eyes on her folded hands as she conversed with her very best friend, Donika, who was leaving the next day for Saranda, to be married.

“I shall never see you again,” Esme said gloomily. “Jason says we must go to England soon.”

“So Mama told me—but you’ll not leave before my wedding, surely?” Donika asked in alarm.

“I fear so.”

“Oh, no. You must ask him, please. Only another month.”

“I’ve asked already. It’s no use. He’s made a promise to my English aunt, who is dying.”

Donika sighed. “Then nothing can be done. A promise on a deathbed is sacred.”

“Is it? She held nothing sacred.” Esme hurled a stone into the water. “Twenty-four years ago she broke her betrothal vows to him. Why? Because one time he got drunk and made a foolish mistake—as any young man might. He played cards and lost a piece of land—that’s all. But she told him he was weak and base, and she wouldn’t marry him.”

“That was not kind. She should have forgiven him one mistake. I would.”

“She did not. But he’s forgiven her. Twice this year he’s gone to visit her. He tells me it was not her fault, but her parents’ doing.”

“A girl must obey her parents,” said Donika. “She can’t choose a husband for herself. Still, I don’t think they should have made her break a sacred vow.”

“It was worse than that,” Esme said angrily. “Not a year after she drove my father away, she wed his brother. She was of a noble family, and wealthy, and you’d think Jason’s family would have been appeased. They were quick enough to take her in, but my father they made her an outcast forever.”

“The English are very strange,” Donika said thoughtfully.

“They’re unnatural,” Esme said. “Shall I tell you what my English grandfather wrote when he received the news of my birth? The words are burned in my heart. ‘It was not enough,’ he said in his hateful letter, ‘that you disgraced the Brentmor name with your reckless debauchery. It was not enough to gamble away your aunt’s property and break your mother’s heart. It was not enough to run away from your errors, instead of remaining, like a man, to make amends. No, you must compound our shame by joining the ranks of Turkish brigands, marrying one of these unspeakable barbarians, and infecting the world with yet another heathen savage.’”

Donika stared at her in horrified disbelief.

“In English, it sounds even worse,” Esme grimly assured her. “This is the family my father wishes to take me to.”

Donika pressed closer and placed a comforting arm about her friend’s thin shoulders. “It’s hard, I know,” she said, “but you belong to your father’s family—at least until you’re wed. Perhaps it won’t be for long. I’m sure your father will find you a husband in England. I’ve seen some Englishmen. Taller than the other Franks, and some quite handsome and strong.”

“Ah, yes, and I’m sure their kin are longing to welcome an ugly little barbarian into the family.”

“You’re not ugly. Your hair is thick and healthy, filled with fire.” Donika smoothed the wavy dark red locks back from Esme’s forehead. “And your eyes are pretty. My mama said so, too. Beautiful, like evergreens, she said. Also, your skin is smooth,” she added, lightly touching Esme’s cheek.

“I have no breasts,” Esme said glumly. “And my legs and arms are like sticks for kindling.”

“Mama says it doesn’t matter if a girl’s skinny, so long as she’s strong. She was skinny, too, yet she bore seven healthy children.”

“I don’t want to bear children to a foreigner,” Esme snapped. “I don’t want to climb into bed with a man who can’t speak my language, and raise children who’ll never learn it.”

“In bed, you won’t need to converse with him,” Donika said with a giggle.

Esme threw her a reproving look. “I should never have told you what Jason said about how babies are made.”

“I’m glad you did. Now I’m not at all frightened. It doesn’t sound very difficult—though perhaps embarrassing at first.”

“It’s also rather painful at first, I think,” Esme said, momentarily distracted by the titillating subject. “But I’ve been shot twice already, and it can’t be worse than having a bullet dug out of your flesh.”

Donika threw her an admiring glance. “You’re not afraid of anything, little warrior. If you can face marauding bandits, you should have no trouble with even your English kin. Still, I’ll miss you so much. If only your father had found you a husband here.” She looked toward the sea and sighed.

“As well wish to find a mountain of diamonds. The fact is, I make a far better boy than a girl, and a better soldier than a wife. A man must be very old and very desperate to want me, when he could have a plump, pretty, docile wife for the same price.”

Donika tossed a stone into the water. “They say Ismal wants you,” she said after a moment. “He isn’t old or desperate, but young and very rich.”

“And a Moslem. I’d rather be boiled in oil than imprisoned in a harem,” Esme said firmly. “Even England, with relatives who hate me, would be better than that.” She considered briefly, then added, “I never told you before, but I was afraid once that it would happen.”

Donika turned to her.

“When I was fourteen, visiting my grandmother in Gjirokastra,” Esme continued, “Ismal and his family were there. He chased me through the garden. I thought it was a game, but—” She paused, flushing.

“But what? But what?”

Though there was no one else about to hear, Esme lowered her voice. “When he caught me, he kissed me on the mouth.”

“Truly?”

Esme shook her head from side to side in the Albanian affirmative.

“What was it like?” Donika asked eagerly. “He’s so handsome, like a prince. Beautiful golden hair, and eyes like blue jewels—”

“It was wet,” Esme interrupted. “I didn’t like it at all. I knocked him down and wiped my mouth and cursed him soundly.” She looked at her friend. “And what did he do? He lay there on the ground and laughed. I thought he was crazy, and I was so afraid his grandfather would make an offer for me and I would have to marry this crazy boy with his wet mouth and live in his harem…but nothing happened. Or if it did, Jason must have said no.”

Donika laughed. “I can’t believe this. You knocked down the cousin of Ali Pasha? You could have been executed.”

“What would you have done?” Esme demanded.

“Screamed for help, of course. But it would never occur to you to call for help. You don’t just think you’re a warrior. You think you’re a whole army.”

Esme turned her gaze to the sea. Any day now it would carry her far away from all she knew and loved…forever.

“My father is no unwanted suitor, no enemy,” she said quietly. “I can’t fight him. When at last he confessed he was homesick, I felt so ashamed for arguing with him. I’ve complained to you, only to unburden myself, but you mustn’t mind it. I know what I must do. He won’t leave without me, and I love him too much to try to make him stay. I’ll make the best of it, for his sake.”

“It won’t be so bad,” Donika comforted. “You’ll be homesick at first, but once you’re wed, with babies of your own, think how happy you’ll be. Think how rich and full your life will be.”

Her gaze upon the pitiless sea, Esme saw only emptiness ahead. But her friend was, miraculously, in love with the man her family had chosen for her. No more self-pity, Esme resolved. No more gloom. This was Donika’s happy time, and it was unkind to spoil it.

“So it will,” Esme said with a laugh. “And I shall teach my babies Albanian, in secret.”

Otranto

“I must ask a favor of you, Edenmont,” Sir Gerald said as Varian was pouring his second cup of coffee. “I’d hoped to leave soon for England, but my responsibilities order otherwise. I want you to take Percival to Venice.”

“Certainly, I should like to oblige,” Varian murmured politely, “but—”

“I realize it’s a great deal to ask,” the baronet interrupted, “but I haven’t much choice. I can’t look after the boy at the moment. It’s too complicated and tedious to explain, but it suffices to say there are certain delicate negotiations—that sort of thing—and one can’t have the lad about, making a nuisance of himself.”

Varian gazed impartially at his coffee cup.

“It wouldn’t be for very long. I expect to take him off your hands in a month or so.”

A month? Or so? Varian dropped in another lump of sugar.

“Naturally, I would assume all expenses,” said Sir Gerald. From his breast pocket he withdrew a bank draft, which he laid beside Varian’s saucer.

Varian eyed it with all the composure with which he regarded a winning card hand, his gray eyes as unreadable as smoke.

“For out-of-pocket expenses,” his host said. “Of course, I shall see to your passage and write to engage suitable lodgings en route, and in Venice.”

“Venice,” said Varian, “is very damp at this time of year.”

“Well, you needn’t hurry. It hardly matters to me whether you dawdle along the way to see the sights, does it? Certainly I’ll send a manservant with you, and pay his way as well. Choose whomever you like.”

Passage paid, a fortune to spend on the way, and a servant. For a man with one pound, three shillings, sixpence in his pocket, the offer was—as it was intended to be—irresistible.

Varian looked up from his cup to meet his host’s impatient gaze. “As I mentioned, Sir Gerald, I should be happy to oblige,” he said.

Tepelena, Albania

Ali Pasha, the wily despot who ruled Albania, was old, fat, and sick. Periodically, he suffered fits of madness.

These drove him to acts of savagery so sadistic that even the Albanians, inured to the brutality of a world in which human life was held very cheap, found them worthy of remark.

That the populace remained loyal, for the most part, and even boasted of his triumphs, was evidence not only of their stoicism, but also of their acute political perceptiveness. There were plenty of monsters about ruling the downtrodden masses of the Ottoman Empire. Ali, however, was the only monster the Sultan could not make his slave. Consequently, the Sultan could not make the Albanians his slaves. They answered only to Ali—when they condescended to answer at all—and he was no outsider, but an Albanian, one of their own. He couldn’t even be bothered to learn Turkish. Why trouble himself when he wasn’t going to listen to the Turks in any event?

Like the Albanians, Jason Brentmor took the broad view of the Machiavellian Vizier. Aware of Ali’s courage, his military and political acumen, and weighing the advantages against the man’s many character flaws, Jason still felt that Ali Pasha, the Lion of Janina, was far preferable to any available alternative.

After more than twenty years’ close association, Jason knew Ali very well. As he left the Vizier’s palace, Jason wished his friend did not know him quite so well. Naturally, as a British subject, Ali had said, Jason was free to leave Albania whenever he wished, but…

Well, what Ali’s long “but” boiled down to was, “How can you abandon me at a time like this? After all I’ve done for you?”

“He’s quite right,” Jason told his comrade, Bajo, as they rode out of Tepelena that afternoon. “And he doesn’t know the half of it. If the rebels succeed, Albania will be plunged into chaos, and the Turks will sweep in easily to crush your people. Ali doubts the uprisings will lead to anything, but he doesn’t want any trouble now, when he’s trying to get the Greeks to join his revolution.”

“If the Greeks join, under his lead, we’ll be able to overthrow the Turks,” said Bajo. “But Ali’s old. I fear there won’t be time.”

“He’s lived this long. He might live to be a hundred.”

Bajo looked at him. “You didn’t tell him, then, of your suspicions about Ismal?”

“I couldn’t. Ali’s been too preoccupied with his grand scheme to notice that we’ve more than scattered unrest on our hands. If he learns a conspiracy’s afoot—and his own cousin behind it—”

“A bloodbath,” Bajo finished succinctly. His gaze softened into compassion. “Ah, Red Lion, you must deal with it yourself, if you wish it to be done without great slaughter.”

Jason sighed. “I realized that in about a quarter hour. I had plenty of time to think it through while pretending to listen to Ali’s brilliant plans to throw off the Turkish yoke.” He paused for a moment to glance about him, but the landscape was deserted. “I shall have to pretend to be killed,” he said quietly.

Bajo thought this over, then shook his head in agreement. “Very wise. If Ismal wishes to succeed, he must get you out of the way. If he believes you’re dead, he won’t need to be so cautious. Meanwhile, you can go where you like and do what you must without troublesome spies and assassins bothering you.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Jason said. “I think Ismal is too cunning to try to kill me outright, at least this early in the game. It’s more likely he’ll try to tie my hands—and the best way to do that is to take Esme as hostage. He’s been moaning about his desperate love for her rather too much lately. I suspect he means to abduct her and make it look like an act of passion. That Ali will readily believe; he’s stolen women and boys enough, merely because he fancied them.”

“I see great advantages to your death,” Bajo said. “She’ll be no use to Ismal then, and he’ll leave her in peace.”

“I don’t mean to risk even that. I want her out of Albania,” Jason said firmly. “I’ve thought it over, and what I propose is a cruel deception, but I see no alternative. Esme must believe I’m dead, or she’ll never leave without me. You must make certain she believes it, and get her on her way to England. I’ll give you money and the names of some people in Venice who can be trusted to take her to my mother.”

“Y’Allah, Red Lion, what a thing you ask of me. To tell the child you’re dead—and then make the grieving creature go away? She’s very stubborn, this girl of yours. How am I to make her go to strangers, foreigners?”

“Don’t give her any time to think,” Jason answered sharply. “If she gives you trouble, knock her on the head and tie her up. It’s for her own good. Better some hours’ discomfort and a few weeks’ grief than rape or murder. I want my daughter to be safe. Don’t make me choose between her and Albania. I love this country, and I’d risk my life for it...but I love my daughter more.”

Bajo shrugged. “Well, you’re English, after all.” He threw Jason a smile. “I’ll do as you ask. She is a superior female, worth two good men, I’ve often said. And once she’s safely away, I’ll return to help you. I suppose you want me to go now?”

“Not this minute. I need to be killed first. We’d better do it further north. I must fall into the river, and be swept away—-or into a deep gorge. We don’t want anyone hunting for my body, now, do we?”

Chapter 2

Bari, Italy

“‘Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,’” Percival quoted. “What does it mean?”

Varian paused in the doorway, a towel in his hands.

Percival had begged to visit the fish stalls today, which he claimed had existed on the Bari breakwater since before Roman times. The area certainly stank as though it had existed—and not been cleaned—since the beginning of time. There Varian had watched the boy consume a bucket of oysters and another of sea urchins, followed by a half bucket of clams. Though Varian had not partaken of the feast, the stench of shellfish had permeated them both equally. This was the third bath he’d taken, and at last the odor seemed to be gone.

He gave his hair a final rub with the towel, then tossed it behind him and entered the sitting room. He sniffed dubiously as he passed Percival, but their servant, Rinaldo, had scrubbed the boy raw. No hint of fish remained.

Percival repeated the line from Childe Harold. “I take it ‘vulgar bliss’ is a euphemism,” he said. “Does Byron refer to women of ill repute? I can’t think what else he could mean. But why leave the one he loved for a tart, when he’s supposedly sick of tarts? And why call it ‘bliss’ when he’s so unhappy?”

“I’m not certain I ought to explain it,” Varian said as he dropped into an overstuffed chair by the fire. “I suspect your father would not approve of your reading Lord Byron.”

“Indeed he would not,” Percival answered, looking up from the book. “But Papa isn’t here, and you are, and you are not in the least like him. Mama said you were like Childe Harold, actually, and so one must conclude you are best able to explain his state of mind. He seems a most morose sort of hero. That is, if he spends his life in pleasure, how can he be unhappy?”

“Perhaps he’s repenting his sins.”

“I thought wicked men did that only when they were old and decrepit. Gout, I understand, has reformed a great many rogues.”

“Perhaps Childe Harold suffers from toothache,” said Varian, leaning back comfortably. He was relieved to find Percival once more his usual self. The boy had been unnaturally quiet and well-behaved all the way to Bari, a sad ghost who gazed dully out the coach window for hours and passively did whatever Varian asked. The shellfish had evidently enlivened Percival’s disposition. Certainly his digestion hadn’t suffered. At dinner, the lad had consumed enough to bloat an elephant. Where the devil did he put it? Varian had seen less scrawny specimens scavenging on London’s streets.

“Did you sin with Signora Razzoli?” Percival asked, after a moment. “Rinaldo says you were her cavalier servente, but that is an idiomatic expression, isn’t it? When you visited her house, did you—”

“We conversed,” Varian said. “She is very well read. And it is vulgar to gossip with servants, Percival.”

“Yes, that’s what Grandmama says, but it’s so interesting. Servants know everything.”

“I expect your grandmother will be happy to have you and your father back in England.”

The boy obligingly followed the conversational detour.

“Well, she makes the best of it, Grandmama says, since she hasn’t anyone else. Uncle John—but they all called him Jack—was the eldest. He died before I was born, though. And Uncle J—” Percival hesitated, then closed his book and pulled his chair closer to Varian’s. In low, confidential tones he concluded, “They pretend Uncle Jason’s dead, too, but he isn’t.”

“Your mother’s brother?” Varian asked. He knew Sir Gerald’s elder brother had succumbed to influenza ages ago. He’d heard of no other Brentmor siblings.

“Papa’s younger brother,” Percival explained. “He ran away years and years ago, and they’ve always pretended he was dead, they were so angry. But he’s not. He’s alive and…and he’s a hero.”

“He must be a most discreet sort of hero,” Varian said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Have you heard of Ali Pasha, the ruler of Albania?” Percival tapped his finger on the book cover. “That’s why I’m reading this. Lord Byron tells all about Ali Pasha and the Albanians, and that’s where Uncle Jason is. He’s lived there all this time, and they call him the Red Lion. That’s for his courage and his red hair. It’s the same color as mine—and quite rare in Albania, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon, Percival, but I do read upon occasion, and am familiar with the poem. I recall no mention of the Red Lion. Where did you read about this fellow?”

Percival wrinkled his brow. “But I’m sure I never said I read about my uncle.”

“Then how do you know so much about a relative everyone pretends is dead?” Varian gave the boy a searching look.

Percival squirmed a little, then sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

“Perhaps it was a dream,” Varian suggested.

“No. It wasn’t a dream.”

“A fairy tale, then.”

“No. It’s quite true.” Percival bit his lip. “I can prove it,” he said. “If you would excuse me for a moment?”

He ran to his room, leaving Varian to stare uneasily at the fire. Moments later, the boy was back, bearing a pile of clothing. He draped the pieces over his chair: woolen trousers with elaborate braiding, a black, gilt-embroidered jacket, and a voluminous cotton shirt.

“Uncle Jason gave them to me,” Percival said. “It’s what the Albanians wear—or some of them. He said he didn’t think I’d want the kilt until I was older. Mama said I wasn’t to show them to anyone, because Papa would find out. But you wouldn’t tell Papa, would you?”

“Tell him what?” Varian asked, though he had a suspicion what the answer was.

“That Uncle Jason came to see us.” Percival picked a minute piece of lint from the jacket and smoothed a crease in the shirt.

In half an hour, Varian had most of the story. Jason had made two visits: one long stay in Venice while Sir Gerald was away, seeking a villa in southern Italy, and one brief visit a few days before Lady Brentmor died. From innocent remarks Percival made—in between extolling his uncle’s endless virtues—Varian guessed that Jason Brentmor had been more than a brother-in-law to Diana.

Varian could hardly blame her for infidelity to a husband like Sir Gerald. Nor was he shocked that the lover was her brother-in-law. On the contrary, the news was welcome. Varian had suspected her life was unhappy, even apart from her illness. He felt an odd relief that someone had made her happy for a while.

“Well, I’m delighted you had a chance to meet this splendid uncle,” Varian said when the tale was done. “However, it grows late, and you ought to make an early bedtime if we’re to tour the Church of St. Nicholas tomorrow.” Varian had his own tour planned for this night, a leisurely exploration of the charms of a certain dark-eyed lady he’d encountered at the Castle of Bari.

“But I haven’t told you the terrible thing I did,” Percival said, his green eyes downcast.

“I am hardly the father confessor,” Varian answered with a tinge of impatience. “So long as you don’t dissect your various specimens upon the table at mealtimes, or fill my bed with your rocks, your sins are of little moment—”

“I gave him the black queen,” Percival said in a choked voice. “By accident, I mean. But if Papa finds out he’ll—he’ll send me to school in India. He’s threatened that hundreds of times, but Mama wouldn’t let him.”

Varian had risen, preparatory to carrying Percival over his shoulder to bed if need be. Now he sat back down. After endless searching, the black queen had finally been presumed stolen, and Sir Gerald had mentioned offering a thousand pounds for its return. Varian could not believe his ears. He gazed at Percival with narrowed eyes. “You what?”

“I meant to give Uncle Jason my rock—the one with the green streaks and the little knobby—”

“The rock’s unique characteristics do not appear pertinent,” Varian interrupted.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Quite right. They’re not—well, not at present, I agree. The fact is, we were in the study. How we got there is not pertinent either, I believe?” Percival asked, looking up hopefully.

“Not at present.”

“Well, that’s a relief, because—”

“Percival.”

“Yes, sir, indeed. To put it as succinctly as possible: I bumped into the chess table and knocked some pieces over. In my agitated state—for Papa would be most—” He caught Varian’s eye and went on hurriedly, “Well, I must have wrapped the black queen in Uncle Jason’s handkerchief by mistake, because later I found the rock was still in my pocket. When Papa told us the queen was gone, I knew what had happened. But I couldn’t tell him, could I?”

If the queen was in Jason’s possession, then it was in Albania by now, hopelessly beyond the reach of a penniless nobleman.

“I suppose not.” Varian rose once more. “I’m sure you’re emotionally drained by this confession, Percival, and most anxious to rest.”

Percival gazed at him consideringly. “Actually, now I’ve confessed, I feel obliged to do something.”

“Yes. Go to bed.”

“What I mean is, we could get her back. That is to say, she is worth a thousand pounds to Papa and,” he said, flinging his arm eastward, “she’s only over there, you know.”

“‘Over there’ is the Ottoman Empire. Don’t be absurd, Percival. Unless your uncle chooses to return it, the queen is gone for good.”

“It takes only a day or two to sail there,” Percival said. “Uncle Jason lives right on the coast. We wouldn’t have to go into the country. Simply stop at the port, as scores of ships do every day, from everywhere.”

“We?” Varian repeated. “If you think I’m hiring a vessel to travel to Albania with a twelve-year-old boy, his father’s sole heir—”

“Papa would pay you the reward, and you know he gave you plenty of money for travel expenses and we’ve got lots of time.”

“No, Percival. Go to bed.”

Percival went to bed, but not until hours later, and Lord Edenmont, having altogether forgotten the dark-eyed lady, sat up until dawn watching the fire dwindle into smoldering embers.

Staring unhappily into the darkness, Percival told himself he was very lucky Lord Edenmont was not as perceptive as Mama. She would have grown suspicious when she saw how much he’d eaten. She knew he overate when he was particularly agitated.

He’d gorged today because he knew he must tell Lord Edenmont a falsehood about the black queen. He had to. Stolen weapons were on their way to Albania, and no one but Uncle Jason could be entrusted with the information, especially since Papa was involved. Unfortunately, one couldn’t write to Uncle Jason. He’d said that powerful men in Albania had spies who regularly intercepted other people’s letters.

Which meant he must be told in person. Which meant deceiving Lord Edenmont. Which had made Percival feel like a criminal.

It hardly counted that people said Lord Edenmont was wicked—or even that Uncle Jason thought so, too. His lordship had always been kind to Mama, and agreeable to Percival himself. He wouldn’t be agreeable ever again, Percival thought regretfully, when he learned the truth. But that would happen only if his lordship took the bait. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

The room’s blackness was just beginning to fade when Percival heard Lord Edenmont enter the adjoining bedchamber. Closing his eyes, Percival told himself one shouldn’t feel sorry about trying to do one’s duty, especially when hundreds of lives might be saved. Besides, one couldn’t expect Lord Edenmont to remain about forever. Sooner or later they’d reach Venice, and his lordship would go away. On the other hand, if all went well, Uncle Jason would soon be on his way to England with Cousin Esme. That would more than make up for losing Lord Edenmont’s company. They’d be together. A family, as Mama wanted.

This reflection quieted Percival’s distress, rather as his mama’s voice might have done. Moments later, while the rising sun darted gold sparks across the Adriatic, he fell asleep.

Tepelena, Albania

Ismal, the beautiful prince with the golden hair and blue jewel eyes, reclined upon his divan and gazed thoughtfully at the ornate chess piece in his hand. “Jason is not leaving?” he asked Risto.

“Ali has persuaded him to stay and help quiet the unrest.”

“That’s disappointing. He’s already captured an important store of weapons. We can’t afford continued interference.”

“You want him dead, master?”

“That would be politically unwise. The Red Lion is too well loved, even by those who support our efforts to oust Ali. I can’t risk being suspected of his murder. Fortunately, I was prepared for this annoying setback.” Ismal smiled at his devoted servant and spy. “You did better than you knew in persuading the Englishman to give you this bit of ‘collateral.’”

Risto bowed his head. “I’d hoped to bring you the entire set. It would have been a fine addition to your treasures. Besides, Sir Gerald’s prices are excessive,” he added disapprovingly.

“I want modern British weapons, and he’s the only dependable source,” Ismal answered with a shrug. “But what a fool he was to put anything in writing, even in code. His hand is too distinctive.”

“He believed me a stupid barbarian, master. He did not trust me to remember the details correctly.”

“Most convenient.” Ismal stroked the black queen’s head. “I kept the message, in case it might be of use. Now I think it will be of great use.” Looking up at his servant, he went on, “I want a party sent to abduct the Red Lion’s daughter—immediately. Jason will know he must accept the bride-price for her, and once she’s mine, he won’t dare move against me.”

“He may go to Ali.”

“I doubt he’d risk her life in that way. But let him.” Ismal turned the chess piece in his hand. “See that this is in Esme’s possession when she’s taken. If Jason dares to make difficulties, why, I shall say he’s a traitor, and the chess piece will be my proof. I’ll advise Ali to consult the British, who’ll have no difficulty tracing the queen to the Red Lion’s brother. No trouble either, showing that the brother wrote the message. Ali knows the Red Lion has been to Italy twice this year, to visit his family. Both my cousin and the British will conclude Jason and his brother are selling stolen arms for their own profit. Both governments will be most displeased.”

His blue eyes glittered as he handed Risto the chess piece. “Now perhaps you see, Risto, how very powerful the queen can be—to a player who knows how to use her.” Then he laughed.

Durrës

Esme woke the instant she felt the hand upon her shoulder and sat bolt upright. The room was still dark. “Papa?” she said to the black shape beside her. Even as she uttered the name, she realized the man wasn’t Jason.

“It is I, Bajo,” the figure said.

A chill of anxiety seized her. “Where is Jason?”

There was a long pause, then a sigh. Even before Bajo spoke, her heart was pounding.

“I’m sorry, child.”

“Where is he?”

“Ah, little one.” Bajo laid his hand on her shoulder. “It is bad news, little warrior. Be strong. Jason has been shot.”

No. No! Her heart screamed, but her tongue was silent. Her hands tightened on the blanket and she bit her lip, refusing to shriek and weep like a weak female.

“We were…ambushed…in the straits of Vijose,” Bajo said. “They shot him in the back, and he fell over the cliff, into the river far below. I thank God it was so. A quick death—and the river swept him away so the filthy assassins could not carry his head to their lord in triumph.”

Jason. Her strong, brave, loving father. Shot in the back like a thief…the icy torrent dragging his body, dashing him against the cruel rocks…Esme closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, and willed the racking grief into rage.

“What assassins?” she demanded. “Who owes me blood?”

“Nay, little one. The Red Lion’s daughter does not seek blood,” he reproached. “The killers are dead. I saw to that. But we’ve no time for talk. Jason’s murder was only the beginning, and you are in great danger. Make haste,” he urged, pulling her from the bed.

Esme yanked free of his grip and found she was shaking. With an effort she made herself stand upright. She always slept fully dressed in her male costume, her long gun within easy reach. One of Bajo’s cousins invariably kept watch outside, even when Jason was home, but she didn’t want to be caught unprepared if the town were suddenly attacked.

“Why haste? Where are we going?”

Bajo picked up her head covering and thrust it into her hands. “North. To Shkodra.” He lit a candle, then hustled about the room, gathering up belongings and tossing them into a sack. Hardly aware of what she did, Esme pulled on the woolen helmet and tucked her hair up inside it, all the while staring at Bajo.

While he packed, he went on talking nervously. “We were hurrying home because Jason feared Ismal was planning to abduct you. Now there’s no doubt of it. Of course he’ll lie—blame the murder on bandits. And Ali will be too devastated to notice or care that Ismal steals a mere female in the meantime.” Bajo paused. “This is why we must make haste. Don’t even think about revenge. If you delay, you invite your own shame. You can’t wish to be concubine of the man who killed your father.”

“I’ll tell the Pasha of Shkodra,” Esme said. “He’ll help me. Ismal owes me blood.”

“The Pasha will help you out of the country,” Bajo answered. “That’s all. That’s what Jason intended, and we’ll do as he wished.”

He met Esme’s horrified gaze, then quickly looked away.

“No,” she said, her voice choked. “You’re not sending me to England? Alone?”

Bajo hauled the sack over his shoulder and moved to the door, where he paused. “It’s a hard thing, I know, little warrior, but the choice is plain. Either you show courage in this, or become Ismal’s slave…and your father will have died for nothing.”

Later, she told herself. Later, she’d have time to think, and she’d find a way.

Without another word, Esme collected the few things Bajo had missed, thrust them into her small traveling pouch, grabbed her rifle, and followed him through the door.

Minutes later, they reached the Durrës harbor. It was nearly dawn, but the shore was so thick with fog that the first tentative rays of light were dull spots of pink in the heavy grey blanket. Bajo’s boat was moored discreetly some distance from the main pier. As they neared the shore, Esme made out the outlines of a larger ship, one of the pielagos which so often called here. Rarely at this time of year, however, for they were ill-equipped to withstand the autumn gales.

A moment later, she discerned figures approaching in the mist. Though they came on foot, she tensed and glanced at Bajo.

“Foreigners,” he whispered.

The next instant confirmed this, as the wind carried to her ears a hodgepodge of Albanian, Italian, and English.

“No…zoti...the boat, I beg you…master…kill me.”

As the figures neared, their voices became more distinct, and Esme heard the boyish tenor reply in cultivated English accents. “Nonsense. My uncle lives in this town.”

“Please, young master, only wait—”

“Here are some people. We can ask them.”

The pair was almost upon them. Though they seemed harmless enough, Esme let her bundle drop to the sand and took a firm grip on her rifle. Bajo, his stance alert, stood near, his rifle ready as well.

“Tongue-got-yet-ah,” the boyish voice called out.

He was only a child, an English child, with accents like her father’s.

“Tungjatjeta,” she cautiously answered the greeting.

Encouraged, the boy hurried up to them.

“Come away,” Bajo whispered to her. “We have no time.”

“He’s English,” Esme answered. In the next instant, she wondered if her ears had deceived her, for the boy’s garb closely resembled her own. He even had a pouch slung over his shoulder. Then, as he came closer, she felt certain she was dreaming. The weak light glinted upon hair the color of her father’s. She backed away as the boy stopped short, his gaze upon Bajo’s rifle. His fat, timid companion cowered several feet behind him.

“Oh, dear, we seem to have alarmed them,” the boy said. “How does one—” He cleared his throat. “Koosh sha-pee—ah—ah—Jason? I mean, it’s quite all right. He’s my uncle. Jason. My jah-jee. The Red Lion, you know—”

“Xhaxha?” Esme repeated, stunned. Jason—this child’s uncle? Incredulous, she stepped closer, all else forgotten as she stared at him. Her father’s hair, her father’s eyes…hers, as well.

Beside her, Bajo lowered his rifle. “He looks like your brother,” he said.

The boy was staring at Esme with equal astonishment.

“Who are you?” she demanded in English.

He stepped nearer, his gaze fixed on her face. “You speak English. Good heavens, you look—but Uncle Jason said she—you are a ‘she,’ aren’t you?” His face reddened. “Oh, dear. How rude of me. I am Percival Brentmor, Jason’s nephew.”

“Jason’s nephew,” Esme repeated numbly.

“Yes. How do you do?”

Esme felt an insane urge to giggle. Or cry. She didn’t know which. She was aware of a rumble, far away. But perhaps she was merely dizzy. Her ears seemed to be ringing.

“Percival,” she said, her mouth dry. “Jason’s nephew.”

“Yes. Are you—are you Esme?”

The rumbling grew louder. Bajo had turned away. He must have heard it, too.

Esme glanced from him to the lad who called himself Percival, Jason’s nephew. The boy was speaking rapidly, but she scarcely heard him. Her concentration was fixed on the building thunder. Not a storm. Riders.

Bajo raised his rifle.

“Go back,” she commanded harshly in English, pushing the boy away. “Go back to your ship—quickly, child. Now!”

“What is it? Bandits?”

“Go back!” she shouted. “Run, damn you!” She gave him another, harder push. This time he got the message and backed away. His alarmed companion was already running for the ship. The boy gave Esme one bewildered glance, then followed.

The pounding hoofbeats raced toward them, and Bajo was screaming at her to run. But the riders, coming from the east, were heading straight for the boy, who was still far from his own ship. If she and Bajo ran for their boat, her cousin would be caught in the crossfire.

She had barely thought it when the dull thunder broke into a roar and a dense, black cloud swept down from the road onto the beach. In the thick fog, they were a whirling mass of dark shapes—a score of horsemen at least. Ignoring Bajo’s frantic commands, Esme raised her rifle and fired, drawing their attention to her. Answering shots flew over her head.

She raced toward an overturned boat on the beach, and saw other forms approaching. Bajo’s comrades. A bullet whizzed past her. She dove for the shelter of the boat and hurriedly reloaded.

The explosions outside jolted Varian from a sound sleep and brought him almost instantly to his feet. A glance about the cabin showed no sign of Percival. Varian yanked his shirt over his head, pulled on his trousers and boots, snatched up his pistols, and raced to the deck.

On the shore, the light-streaked fog shrouded a writhing mass of horses and men and a cacophony of war cries and rifle fire. He scrambled onto the pier and dashed toward the battleground.

“Percival!” he bellowed.