The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

shore.”
    Zigur
hesitated, then placed a small, cool hand on Varian's forehead. “You
are warm, but not feverish,” the boy said. “Do not
agitate yourself. We sail to Corfu, where you will find British
soldiers to escort you to Ali in Tepelena. There you will find my
cousin Percival safe, I promise. Ali will protect him as though he
were a great, rare diamond, and your British friends will make sure
the Pasha does not demand too high a reward for his hospitality. The
matter is easily settled. Would to God all else were so simple,”
he muttered as he reached again for the damp cloth.
    Later,
Varian would wonder at his own docility. At the moment, however, he
existed helplessly in a nighmare of shock and pain. He possessed
neither the will nor the strength to make the ship turn back. Even if
he did, what would that accomplish? He might be on the moon for all
he knew of this place and its inhabitants. He must trust Jason's
young bastard because, quite simply, Lord Edenmont hadn't the first
idea what else to do.
    •
     • •

    ESME
HAD SMELLED the storm in the air by late afternoon. When she went
above at sunset, she saw the awareness reflected in the crew's eyes.
The ship was not built to withstand turbulent weather. Money, she'd
learned, had tempted the captain to make a voyage so close to the
start of the stormy season. Now, clearly, he regretted his greed.
    “We
can't continue,” he told her. “Warn the English baron we
must make for land.”
    Esme
somberly eyed the coastline. Nothing resembling a port stood here,
she knew, and the light craft already shuddered at the assault of
wind and roughening sea. In the distance she saw lightning crackle.
    “It's
no good telling him,” she answered. “His head is broken
and he understands nothing. You expect difficulty.” It wasn't a
question.
    “If
I can't maneuver close enough, we'll have to get him on a boat,”
the captain answered unhappily. “I'll send two reliable men to
take you to shore.”
    She
calculated. A small boat ran less risk traversing the shallow waters.
If they took it now, they'd reach land before the storm broke. Petro
would be useless, of course. He'd begun wailing and praying hours
ago. Fat, lazy, and dirty, he was the poorest excuse for a dragoman
she'd ever encountered. While his origins were undeterminable, it was
plain enough that he was inept in at least five of the seven
languages he lay claim to. Nonetheless, with two sturdy sailors to
help, she could manage.
    “Let
it be now,” she said calmly. “Neither you nor I want a
dead English nobleman on our hands. Your ship may survive the storm.
If the lord remains aboard, I doubt he will.”
    As
it turned out, the Englishman barely survived the short trip to
shore, most of which he spent retching over the side. Still, he made
no complaint — unlike
Petro, who shed tears enough to sink them while he tore at his hair
and wailed at Allah and Jehovah and all the saints by turns for
mercy. Undis-tracted by their passengers, the two Italian sailors
steadily plied their oars, leaving Esme to keep a lookout for
obstacles and make sure the landlubbers didn't tumble into the sea.
    When
they all reached solid land at last, the Englishman sank to the
ground, while the others gazed haplessly at the desolate landscape.
All around them lay a flat stretch of wasteland, empty of any sign of
human habitation. But there would be something, Esme knew. Some
shelter. She might camp here comfortably enough — she'd
slept in the open before, even in rain. Unfortunately, her patient
needed a roof over his head, lest he contract a fatal chill, and that
she didn't need. He'd already caused complications enough.
    “Help
the Englishman,” she told the sailors as she took up her long
gun and swung her leather bag over her shoulder. “You, Petro,
take his bag and hold your tongue. We must go eastward a ways, and we
have no time for dawdling and lamentations.”

    WHEN
VARIAN FINALLY awoke from what he fervently hoped