Free The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase Page B

responsible, albeit unwittingly, for his own
brother's murder?
    “Oh,
Mama,” Percival whispered, gazing down unhappily at the black
queen. “What on earth am I to do?”

    Chapter
5

    NEITHER
MALIQ NOR HIS COMPANY SIGHED OR salivated over the English lord at
supper. After all, they were not dissolute denizens of a corrupt
court. Though gracious and hospitable, they had too much pride to
fawn all over him.
    Which
wasn't to say they weren't curious. While Rro-gozhina saw many
visitors in the course of a year, a foreigner was a rare species, and
this exotic newcomer was, in addition, tall, graceful, and handsome.
They found his physiognomy, attire, and behavior thoroughly
fascinating, though they had the dignity not to show this in any
blatant way.
    At
least the men didn't, Esme corrected herself as she followed him to
his chamber and saw two plump, pretty girls peeping out at him from a
doorway, their mouths hanging open. When he turned to bid them good
night, they giggled and retreated. Fools, Esme thought disdainfully.
If only they knew what a depraved, idle piece of worthlessness he
was.
    At
supper, Esme had been obliged to introduce him properly to the
company. When they had first arrived in the village, he appeared so
tired and ill that formalities were left for later;
    first,
the English lord must be made comfortable. Not until supper did she
realize she 'd never
been honored with a formal introduction. Three nights she'd slept
beside him, and she didn't even know his name. The
English baron, the lord. That's all
she'd heard from Petro and the captain — as
though the man's true name was too holy to be spoken aloud.
    “Tell
them your name,” she'd whispered harshly as the women carried
in the food. “I don't know it.”
    In
quick, clipped syllables, he'd tossed out a long, ridiculous set of
names: Varian Edward Harcourt St. George, Baron Edenmont of
Buckinghamshire, England. Then he'd given her the most obnoxiously
smug smile, as though defying her to remember it all. Though she'd
wanted to slap him, Esme had turned to her host and gleefully
supplied a translation, at the end of which she heard several
smothered chuckles in the audience.
    “What
the devil did you tell them?” he'd whispered, making her ear
tickle.
    “St.
George is Shenjt Gjergj, a
saint they all recognize,” she said. “I told him a baron
was something like a bej, and
a shire was one of England's pashaliks”
    “What's
so hilarious about that?”
    She
shrugged. “Perhaps it was your Christian name. I said it was
from Latin. Varian,” she said, pronouncing it with the wide
vowels and burr of Albanian. “Fickle, it means.”
    “Later,”
he warned, “I shall spank you.”
    Nonetheless,
he'd laughed, and the company with him, and someone had said his
laughter was like music.
    Though
she much doubted his lordship had the temerity to spank her, Esme was
not eager to be alone with him. She trailed him into the chamber and
pulled the door hanging closed behind her. She'd only make sure he
had all he needed, she decided. Then she'd be quit of him for the
night.
    The
room was small. All the same, by country village standards, it was
luxurious. Few houses had more than two rooms. Maliq's encompassed
six, and this must have been fitted up to accommodate visiting
dignitaries. Instead of sofas — the
boards built against the walls to serve as couches and beds — the tidy space boasted one large
bunk and a substantial hearth.
    They'd
given the Englishman not only the softest cushions and thickest
blankets, but privacy, a rare commodity.
    Two
large pitchers filled with steaming water stood by the hearth, and a
kettle hung from a chain over the fire. A twinge of envy pricked her.
She'd washed her face and hands earlier, all the while acutely
conscious he'd hardly consider that sufficient. Petro hadn't needed
to tell her how fastidious the master was. She had a nose and eyes,
didn't she? She'd seen how clean his shirt was, and could not
remember when