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Esme clicked her tongue. “Jo,” she corrected sharply. “Not his son, you dirty-minded old man,” she muttered in English. “Nip. His nephew.” She threw Varian an accusing look. “I knew this would happen.”
“Still, the resemblance is remarkable,” came a new voice behind Varian. It was low and musical, the English only lightly accented.
All Varian’s senses bristled, as though the silken male voice were a glove striking his face in challenge. He didn’t deign to turn his head. He understood now why he’d been seated with his back to the door. Ali was positioned to catch every expression at each new entrance—the first, unguarded reaction. Varian would not give him the satisfaction again. He waited until the speaker entered his line of vision and, even then, chose to keep his attention upon Ali until the man was seated, his eyes level with Varian’s.
These were deep sapphire eyes, slanting upward slightly above high cheekbones. These were clear, apparently guileless eyes in a smooth young countenance whose fairness any English lady would envy. He wore no turban, and his hair was long, the color of cornsilk. He introduced himself. He didn’t need to. This was the golden prince: Ismal.
Esme had said he was two and twenty. He appeared no more than eighteen, a slim youth with a proud, elegant bearing and all the grace of a dancer. No, a cat.
Ismal had garbed himself in the Turkish style: a gold silk tunic with a sash of blue the precise color of his eyes, over matching silk trousers. He needn’t have bothered. Ismal could have worn a flea-bitten hide, and he’d still be beautiful, cultivated, and noble to the bone. For a moment, he made Varian feel like a peasant, and a barbarian to boot. But only for a moment. Humility, after all, was not an article in great supply among the St. Georges.
Varian returned the young man’s gracious greeting with excruciating courtesy, his face unreadable, his insides churning with hatred and blind, mindless jealousy.
He spent the next quarter hour trying to maintain his composure, trying to think rationally, past the roiling rage in his mind. But thinking was impossible. He was too aware of the richly garbed bodies on either side of him, too aware of their voices, their scents: one light and teasingly feminine; the other darker, exotic, and clearly masculine. Through the rustle of silk, Varian could scarcely make sense of the conversation about him.
He heard Ali’s voice rising in inquiry…Percival’s, answering stiffly at first, then with increasing assurance until he was chatting eagerly…and between them, smoothly interpreting, Esme’s voice, low and soothing as a cool stream on a sultry day.
Then Ismal spoke, and Ali answered at length.
Esme touched Varian’s arm, and the contact jerked him out of the haze so abruptly that he blinked. His companions came into sharp focus. They were all watching him.
“Ali gives Ismal permission to address you directly,” she said. “You are to stand in the place of Percival’s father, the head of my English family, and speak on our behalf. Ali says my cousin is intelligent, but such matters cannot be resolved by children and women.” She met Varian’s puzzled gaze for one tense moment, and he read in her eyes what she wouldn’t add aloud: Remember your promise.
Varian stiffly turned his attention to Ismal, whose expression grew solemn.
“I’ll not tax your patience with endless roundabout speeches, my lord,” said the golden prince. “I admit freely it was my own followers who so villainously sought to steal the Red Lion’s daughter, but I tell you as well that I never commanded it. Never. I have denounced those who ordered the deed, and will happily preside over their lackeys’ executions when they are found.”
Percival made a queer, choked sound, but Ismal appeared not to notice.
“It is also claimed—and this is cruelly unjust—that I ordered the Red Lion’s death. This is a vile lie, which all reasoning men recognize. Why should I cut down the sire of the girl I seek as my bride?” His feline blue gaze flickered to Esme, then back.
Varian felt his fingers curling tightly against his palms. He settled them back upon his knees. “It’s not the customary way of wooing,” he said. “At least not in England.”
Ismal’s mouth curved with amusement. He’d probably broken a thousand hearts with that lazy cat smile.
“You please to be droll, my lord,” said the golden prince. “Even in Albania, it is a most irregular way to go about winning a girl’s heart.”
Wonderful. A wit, in addition to everything else.
“I’d not kill Esme’s father, even were he my worst enemy, for she loved him and must look upon his murderer with vengeful hate.”
When Esme translated this for Ali, he made a jovial comment.
Ismal’s smile widened. “Ali remarks that vengeful wives are uncomfortable creatures to have about. He has no doubt the little warrior would slit my throat if she believed me guilty. Such a state of mind in a bride is poor encouragement to a groom’s ardor.”
Varian looked at Esme. She sat composedly beside him, her hands folded, her eyes demurely downcast while she translated for Ali as though they discussed agriculture, rather than her father’s murder and her own future.
Vengeful hate. Slit his throat.
No.
She wouldn’t.
The hairs on the back of Varian’s neck bristled all the same.
He glanced at Ali, unaware of the silent question he asked until he saw the Vizier’s answer, a barely perceptible motion of his head. Side to side: Yes. Was it possible? Did the genial old fiend suspect what he did—and worse, know the answer?
Varian returned Ismal’s smile with one equally disarming. “You appear far too intelligent to do such a foolish thing,” he said. “Nor can I believe a man the Almighty has so highly favored need take such desperate measures to secure a woman.”
Ismal calmly accepted this rubbish, his eyes as trusting as a babe’s.
“Frankly, though, I can’t understand why you’d want her at all,” Varian went on blandly. “You appear not the least deluded regarding her violent character.”
The green silk gown rustled as Esme shifted her position. She muttered something, too low for Varian to catch, then briskly translated Varian’s remarks for Ali, who chuckled.
“I have no taste for a docile wife,” Ismal said. “The little warrior is fierce and brave, and stirs my blood as no other woman can. So it has been since we were children. She knows. She knows how she has tormented me.” He shot her a soulful look, but Esme kept her attention upon her hands.
So demurely feminine. So sweetly shy under her would-be lover’s passionate gaze…while she was no doubt reviewing in her twisted little mind how she’d kill him.
“Four years ago,” Ismal went on, “when she was fourteen, I begged her father for her hand in marriage. He said she was too young, and I must wait.”
Four years ago—when she was fourteen? Then it all came back, stunningly clear. She had told Varian of her life—a year in Durres, five in Shkodra, two in Berat, and so on and so on. Her life. All eighteen bloody years of it. Why the devil had he never simply a
sked? Why had he tortured himself all this while when a simple question would have relieved him—of that particular guilt at least.
But Varian knew why. He’d been afraid he’d learn she was even younger than he’d guessed.
“Yes, Jason would say that,” Varian agreed composedly. “English girls mature more slowly, I believe, than those in other parts of the world. Esme herself admitted she was slower than most.”
“She is no longer too young, my lord. I have wanted her many years. Now, because she is alone, I feel responsible for her as well. When my noble cousin told me you were coming to Tepelena, I rejoiced, for I would have an opportunity to make amends for all the insults she and her English friends suffered that evil day in Durres. I might try, at least in part, to wipe away my shame and sorrow for all that has happened in my name.”
Ismal’s approach to repentance was briskly businesslike. He would pay two hundred English pounds in bride-price to Esme’s uncle. This was about twenty times the going rate, Esme coolly explained, women being accounted, generally, less valuable than horses. Fines must be paid as well, it turned out: five hundred each to Varian and Percival for the insults to their persons in Durres and five hundred to Ali for the insult to his authority. In addition, Ismal would give Ali and Varian each an Arabian stallion, and Percival a colt of equally good blood.
Lastly, Ismal took up a jewel-encrusted silver box that lay near Ali’s divan.
“These baubles I give to my intended bride, in token of our betrothal.”
He handed Varian the box. The “baubles” consisted of emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and other such gimcracks.
Varian gave them one bored glance and Ismal another.
“Naturally, my bride will receive proper jewels when we are wed,” the golden prince said. There was a faint note of impatience in his tone.
“Naturally.” Proper jewels. Oh, yes. Diamonds, of course, and miles of those gold coin necklaces and hair adornments Byron had described. Hundreds of silken gowns, and slippers embroidered with gold and silver. Esme would never lift a finger again all the rest of her life. Her brown, strong hands would grow as soft and white as the rest of her. She’d be pampered, her every whim a command. She’d dine on rare delicacies, and her slight form would blossom into lush womanhood.
