The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase Page B

forty-eight hours. A moment's delay
and he'd have found her knife in his ribs. Yet furious as Varian was,
he was not completely insensitive. If she wasn't Jason's son, she was
surely his daughter. Her name was Esme, a Saxon name, and there was
no denying her uncanny resemblance to Percival. All of which
    meant
that she'd just lost her father, which was reason enough to be
overwrought. Furthermore, the liberties he'd unconsciously taken with
her young body must have terrified her.
    “I'm
sorry I was so ... violent,” he said tightly.
“But you took me by surprise, and I thought I was being
attacked.”
    The
green glare changed to an expression of pure scorn. “You? It was not my hands roaming where
they had no place to be.”
    “I
was asleepl” he
snapped defensively. “How the devil was I to know where my
hands were?”
    “So
it is,” Petro eagerly agreed. “Why should he caress one
he thought a boy? The master does not care for boys. So everyone
knows —”
    “I
wasn't caressing her,
damn you. I was asleep and —”
    “You
put your hand on my breast!” she accused. “You think I am
a concubine, to make no objection? I only tried to get away — and
you act as though I tried to murder you. And then it is not enough to
subdue me in that shameful way, but you must take off my clothes.”
    “I
took your knife, so you wouldn't kill me, and I took off your hat — or
whatever that medieval monstrosity is,” he returned, tossing
the woolen rag to her.
    “It
does not matter what it is. You had no right. Had I menfolk by,
they'd have killed you for the insult.”
    She
jammed the ugly woolen helmet onto her head and shoved her thick hair
up inside it. Varian saw her hands were shaking. He'd frightened her
badly. The poor child must have thought he'd meant to rape her.
    “I
beg your pardon,” he said. “I'm not altogether rational
when I'm awakened suddenly. But you did deceive me regarding your
gender. It was only natural to imagine you were up to some dangerous
trick. Theft, murder — how
was I to know?”
    “So
it is,” Petro said. “So I thought myself. Foolish, very
foolish,” he chided, “for a little girl to make herself
like a boy. And sinful to tell lies.”
    “How
can you be so ignorant?” she exclaimed. “There is a man
after me whose accomplices seek a red-haired girl — and
will again seek me when they learn my cousin is a boy. The task isn't
difficult. How many red-haired Albanians do you think there are?”
she demanded. “I've never heard of any but me.”
    She
turned her accusing gaze to Varian, who was growing acutely
uncomfortable. “It is not the best disguise, I know, but Bajo
and I did not plan to linger about long enough to allow close
scrutiny,” she went on. “Had the men not spied my cousin,
they might have turned away to look elsewhere. And I might have
escaped.”
    Varian
could hardly argue with that. It was his fault she'd not been able to
escape, his fault Percival was in the hands of perverts.
    “I
agree I'm responsible for this whole ghastly mess,” he said.
“Considering how stupidly I've behaved, I oughtn't be surprised
at your reluctance to trust me with your secret.”
    This
seemed to placate her somewhat, for she answered less belligerently.
“I thought we would all be safer if you did not know. You might
treat me differently, or accidentally say something — and
others might notice, and I would be discovered.”
    That,
too, made sense. For all her youth, she had a level head on her
shoulders. Varian's mouth eased into a rueful smile.
    “Percival
said his uncle was not only brave, but astute,” he said. “It
would appear you've inherited those qualities as well as his looks.”
    The
defiance faded from her intense green eyes, and sorrow clouded them.
    “I
was son and daughter to Jason.” Her voice was a shade unsteady.
“He taught me all I know. Four languages I speak well, and
Turkish enough to curse.” She swallowed. “I am an
excellent marksman,