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“I am not—”
The rest came out in a choked oath, as Esme found herself swiftly caught up in his arms and deposited upon the bed. She instantly bolted to her feet, but his hands clamped down on her shoulders. Instinctively, she retreated from the hard column of his body and felt the edge of the bed press against her thighs. “Do not think you can vanquish me so easily, efendi,” she declared. “If you do not release me and move out of the way, you shall feel the weight of my boot on your noble foot.”
Defiant words, it turned out, were no match for two firm hands. Scarcely had she finished speaking when her bottom landed on the bunk. Before she could bounce up again, he got hold of her foot. Esme tumbled backward, and while she struggled to regain her balance, he pulled off first one boot, then the other.
“Stomp on my feet now, if you like,” he said, still holding her ankle prisoner, “but you shall not spoil my lovely stockings, little wildcat.”
“Silk,” she sneered, despite the unnerving awareness of the long fingers clasping her ankle. “Only a concubine would wear silk upon her feet.”
He studied the thickly hosed foot he held. “Much pleasanter than scratchy wool, I assure you. If you’re a good girl, perhaps I’ll send you silk stockings from Italy for your trousseau. Your stockings are still damp,” he added. “That’s unhealthy.”
She tried to jerk free, but both wool socks came off with the same swift ease as the boots. Her heart pounding, Esme concluded that he must have had a great deal of experience relieving women of their clothing. And why the devil would he not release her? You’d think he’d never seen feet before, the way he stared.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Her feet were not so very dirty, but then, not so very clean, either. Not like the clean, soapy smell of his head. In the glow of candle and hearth, his black hair glistened like jet beads.
“Your feet are so tiny,” he said in soft surprise. “Small, fine bones, like a bird’s.” His finger lightly traced a muscle to her ankle, and the thread of warmth he drew there spread upward to her knee and made her tremble.
He looked up, and it seemed for a moment as though the air between them vibrated, like the strings of a mandolin. In the room’s amber light, his clean-shaven face gleamed smooth as polished marble, but his gray eyes had darkened, grown strangely intent. A lock of black hair tumbled to his eyebrow, and she wanted to brush it back. The wish made her feel weak, and wistful.
“Let go of me,” she said in a tiny voice she didn’t recognize.
“Oh.” He blinked, and the shimmering warmth vanished from his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He released her. “I forgot…that is…you have lovely feet.” His voice, too, sounded strange.
Her heart battered confusedly within her chest, like a moth beating at a window. “My feet are dirty,” she said tightly.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t think—Well, I suppose no one bothered much about you, did they?” He stood up. “If you’d like to wash, I’ll step out of the room for a bit.”
Without waiting for her answer, he left. After a moment’s hesitation, Esme darted for the pitchers. With furious speed, she stripped to the skin, then savagely scrubbed herself from top to bottom. There wasn’t enough water to wash her hair, so she untangled it as best she could with her fingers, then wove it into a single braid to keep it out of her face.
When she heard his returning footsteps, she was just pulling on her shirt. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. “I am not yet dressed,” she called softly.
“Just as well. Our host’s nephew or cousin or grandson or whatever has donated a clean shirt for you to sleep in.” The door curtain parted slightly, and he tossed the garment inside.
Blushing hotly, Esme snatched it up and hurriedly threw it over her head. It fell well past her knees.
“I—I’m decent now,” she said, suddenly feeling foolish. She had no need of his approval. What did it matter to him if she was clean or dirty? She was an ugly little savage, his guide and interpreter, that was all.
Outside the door, Varian hesitated. There was plenty of room elsewhere. Perhaps he should let her have the chamber to herself. She was far away from the men. She’d be safe enough. Except that he didn’t like to leave her alone. She was too much alone in the world…and too young.
He should not have teased her. Though young, she was not entirely a child, and he most certainly wasn’t, either. He was no older brother who might tumble her about in innocent horseplay. Varian St. George had left innocence behind long ago. All the same, he’d been shocked to find himself stroking her foot—and a heartbeat away from worse. That small, bewildered voice…she must have seen it in his eyes, or sensed it.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. She didn’t, couldn’t know. He’d pretend nothing had happened. Nothing had. It had all happened in his mind, which obviously had snapped. Hardly surprising in the circumstances.
He flung back the curtain, entered—and nearly stumbled.
Esme stood before the fire, her stance stiff and defiant and her color very high. If she’d any inkling what the firelight revealed beneath the lamentably thin nightshirt, she’d probably turn purple. He ought to tell her. That was the gentlemanly thing to do. And he’d do it, in a moment—but, oh, Lord, was there ever anything so sweet? The slight swell of her taut young breasts, and a breath of a waist rounding ever so subtly into slim hips and firm, slender thighs and…
In short, she was a nymph whom Artemis herself had surely fashioned.
Belatedly, Varian saw her growing edgy under his ogling. Gad, he hoped he wasn’t so obvious as that. “You’re so…tiny,” he said.
“Papa said the women of his family were late to mature.” She lifted her chin. “I will grow.”
Varian thought he’d like to be there when she did. Aloud he said, “Certainly. You’ve lots of time.” He moved to collect a pillow and two more blankets from the vast heap on the bunk.
“One of my friends grew two inches between her first babe and her second,” she said defensively.
“One of your friends?” He turned to her, unconsciously clutching the cushion to his belly. “How young do Albanian girls wed?”
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” She shrugged. “They’re often betrothed at birth and wed when they’re old enough to bear children. But Jason would not do so with me, because it was not his country’s custom.”
“Good heavens, I should say not.” Varian tossed pillow and blankets atop the one she’d laid out by the hearth. “Girls in England wait until they’re eighteen to go on the Marriage Mart—at least among the upper orders. Even then, I much doubt they’re sufficiently adult to become mothers.”
Her gaze grew thoughtful. “Yes, I expect they’re much sheltered,” she said. To his relief, she moved away from the fire and toward the bunk, the contemplation of which drew her full mouth down into a frown.
“You will be cold on the floor,” she said, her gaze still upon the bed.
“My dear girl, last night I slept in a leaking tent in a typhoon.”
“But you had a body on either side to keep you warm.”
This, Varian thought, was not the time to remind him. It would be a deal cozier to share the bed with her, but tonight he hadn’t Petro as chaperon, and tonight, of all times, he had experienced disquieting feelings about a very young, innocent girl. Suppose this should trigger another lascivious dream and liberties similar to or even greater than those he’d taken a few nights ago in his sleep? Then, at least, she had been fully armored in her rough woolen garments. Now there was as good as nothing between his depraved hands and her innocent flesh. No, he would not think about that.
“I’ll be sufficiently warm here by the hearth,” he said. “Really, Esme, I don’t want the bed. I want you to consider it as—as amends, you see. For my rudely tumbling you about a while ago,” he hastily improvised. “And—and because I’ve been such a pestilential traveling companion, and will likely continue so.”
She turned and looked at hi
m, the faintest hint of a smile on her otherwise grave countenance. “The bed is my revenge, efendi?”
“Exactly.”
With a low chuckle, she climbed onto the bed and comfortably established herself in her customary Buddhalike pose. “In that case, I shall enjoy it to the fullest. It is very soft,” she added.
Varian sighed and pulled off his coat. “I expect it is.” He unwound his neckcloth and dropped it on the floor.
“You are most untidy,” she said. “Also, your neck will get cold.”
“Would you rather I strangled myself? And do you mean to sit there and watch me disrobe?”
“I did not know you intended to disrobe altogether. You will be very cold,” she said. “Also, it is immodest to undress without putting out the candles first.”
“Also, it is a tedious business to find one’s buttons in the dark. Can’t you just put your head under the covers? Unless, that is, you wish to admire my manly beauty,” he added provokingly.
This did not fluster her as he’d expected. She regarded him coolly for a moment, then equally coolly, drew up the blankets and lay down with her back to him.
“Petro was right,” she said scornfully. “You have no modesty at all. Also, you are vain. Not that I am surprised, when I see how the women become like drunkards when they look at you.” She yawned. “Still, if you wish to prance about the room naked, that is your affair. Perhaps the activity will keep you warm.”
“What an elegant picture you paint,” Varian said, grinning in spite of himself. “The twelfth Baron Edenmont dancing about in his birthday suit like a—like a—”
