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“I see,” she said. “You are amused. I make a fine court jester.”
“The jester, may I point out, was usually the only member of the court who dared speak the truth.”
“Aye,” she answered wearily, “and they all laughed, just the same.”
They stopped to make camp just before sunset and, for the first time, his lordship made himself useful. He assisted not only in unloading the horses, but in setting up the tents and collecting fuel for the fire. Esme thought he was more in the way than helpful, but the men didn’t seem to mind his incompetence, though they were obviously amused. He seemed amused as well. Esme heard a great deal of laughter, interspersed by Petro’s translations—inept, no doubt.
She was not allowed to join them. His royal highness had pointed to one spot near the horses where she was to remain until their tent was in place, unless she wished to suffer some perfectly ghastly punishment.
The threat was unnecessary. Esme fully understood why she must keep away from the men. If they discovered her gender, they could easily, though unintentionally, misspeak in the wrong company. A single word—a feminine pronoun instead of masculine—could arouse suspicion, and one could never be certain where Ismal’s spies were.
Nonetheless, Esme found she could not wait calmly. She had never been good at waiting, and now she felt so restless she could scream. It was his lordship’s fault. He made her tense and unreasonably angry and, driven by anger, she found herself behaving exactly like the uncivilized heathen he thought her.
How many times had she insulted him? A hundred, at least. Yet it was his fault, too, for provoking her, and treating her like a helpless child, and nearly falling off his horse in amazement every time she showed the smallest sign of intelligence.
Extenuating. You’d think it was the most obscure and complicated word in twenty languages. And to say English was precise—when he could not produce a string of words in that curst language to explain himself.
Also, he’d said she was unfeeling. She, wracked with grief for a murdered father. She, anxious—for all her assurances to everyone else—for her young cousin.
Should she have wept and worried the whole day? Or perhaps his lordship would prefer to hear her boast of her plans for revenge, and the certain death she was headed for. Or maybe she should moan pathetically that she was all alone in her own country, and the few who cared about her at all planned to send her away to a foreign land and a family that despised her.
Aye, she had plenty of feeling to show, were she weak-willed enough. Should she tell him, too, that he only made everything worse?
From the clearing beyond came his low-pitched drawl and another burst of laughter from the men. Esme kicked a stone. There he was, charming them all, as usual. And here she was, driven to distraction, because the sound of his voice drew her entire being to him, and she could not stop it, for all her will.
She sent another stone flying into the thicket and wished she could find some greater damage to inflict. She wished she had Ismal’s neck in her hands at this moment, for she could have wrung it as easily as if it were a chicken’s. It was all his fault, every bit of it, up to and including this devil of an Englishman.
“Are you trying to pave a road for me singlehanded? How very thoughtful, madam.”
Esme turned hastily. She’d not heard him approach. “I was bored,” she said, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Better to kick stones than living targets.”
“Do you want to kick me so badly?” he asked. “What have I done now?”
“You’ve made me stay in one place, all by myself, while you go and amuse yourself with the other men. I wait alone and listen to you laugh, and no one tells me the jokes.”
“Of course not. They’re not fit for a young lady’s innocent ears. Besides, you wouldn’t understand them.” He paused. “At least, I hope not.”
Her head went up. “They told wicked stories and you would not let me hear?”
“It doesn’t matter what kind of stories. You know why you have to keep away from the men, Esme, so there’s no need to look at me in that murderous way.”
“You might have given me something to do,” she grumbled. “To wait idly, with no company, is tiresome.”
A lazy lure of a smile curved his wicked mouth. “Forgive me,” he said. “I had no idea you were longing for my company. How cruel of me to deprive you.”
To her consternation, Esme felt her cheeks heat. She raised her chin. “Indeed, efendi, my beautiful god. You have broken my heart. I think I shall run to the river and drown myself.”
Her spine straight, she began to march past him. His hand shot out and lightly caught her arm.
Esme looked down at his long, smooth hand, then up into his face, and her heartbeat quickened.
“I was only teasing,” he said. “I know you’d rather the Devil’s company than mine.”
“I think that is much the same thing,” she answered tartly. “You may let go of me. I cannot run away. I have no place to go.”
“I’m sorry.” He slid his hand down her arm, where it lingered a moment to leave a tingle of warmth. Then, finally, he released her. “Shall I tell Petro to keep you company tonight? I can’t leave you by yourself.”
Petro—that fearful old woman—her guard? How dare he? Yet Esme knew why. His almighty lordship didn’t want her low company.
“You think I need him?” she cried. “What is wrong with you? Only tell me where to sleep and I shall make my bed there. Here, if you like. What have I to fear? Kidnappers—when I’m dead? Wild beasts? There are none hereabouts. And besides, I have my rifle and my knife and—”
“And you’re a female,” he interrupted, “so it’s no good telling me how capable you are of defending yourself. I’m an Englishman, recollect, and it’s against our rules to leave women to fend for themselves. You shouldn’t even be traveling with me without a chaperon, but I can hardly get you one when you’re supposed to be a boy.” He sighed, then started back toward the tent.
After a moment’s hesitation, Esme followed.
“You make a great piece of trouble about nothing,”
She said as she trailed him into the tent. “You agitate yourself for no reason. If this is the English way, I must tell you it is stupid and crazy. My father reared me to protect myself, not be sheltered and coddled by others. I am not a babe, and it is offensive to be treated like one.”
His back was turned to her, and he was pulling off his cloak. He flung it to the ground and swung round to face her. “I do beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “How do you wish to be treated?”
His tower of a body vibrated with anger. Only a fool would provoke him further. Esme’s brain told her to shut up, but she was beyond heeding it. “As I appear,” she snapped. “As a boy. Even a boy of twelve, like my cousin, is considered a man, not a helpless infant.”
He advanced and, in a flash, yanked off her headdress and threw it onto the cloak. Her tangled hair
fell loose against her shoulders, and she immediately felt undressed. She started to back away, but his hands clamped down on her shoulders. Not so strong a grip. She might easily break free. She didn’t want to, and hated herself.
“You can’t change your gender with a hat,” he said. “You’re not a boy, and all the wishing in the world won’t make you one. You are a wretched, quarrelsome female, and you are plaguing me to death. I’m trying to behave like a gentleman—why must you make it so curst impossible?” His hands moved from her shoulders, up her neck, to cup her face. “Why, Esme?”
She didn’t know. Within, a vast impatience consumed her. She’d always been so levelheaded, above vanity, yet looking into that beautiful, dissipated countenance, Esme wished desperately she were beautiful as well, that she might dare to touch him…
She closed her eyes. If she couldn’t see, she wouldn’t weaken.
“Oh, don’t,” he whispered, so near his breath caressed her skin. A tiny shiver ran down her neck. Nearly in the same instant, she felt the soft warmth of his mouth touching hers. A shower of sparks darted through her, a delicious feeling of gladness.
Instinctively, she touched his sleeve, to keep him there.
Miraculously, it worked. The warmth sank down upon her, and his lips clung to hers like morning dew upon a budding rose. For one long moment, she felt as beautiful as a rosebud, all her being opening in pleasure as a flower opens to a warm spring dawn.
He scarcely held her, his hands lightly cupping her face. Esme felt only the lightest pressure as his lips moved gently over hers, but that was an aching sweetness which swelled within her while he lingered...as though it were delicious to him, as though he savored what he tasted there.
But that was impossible. All he could feel was curiosity. Though she was another species to him, she was a female, as he’d reminded her so angrily. Being addicted to females, he must, naturally, investigate even this pitiful specimen. He must toy with her and discover if she was like other women.
Esme pulled her head back, and his eyes opened in sleepy surprise. “That is enough,” she said shakily.
