Gerard set his hand on Wynn’s shoulder, drawing Wynn’s gaze up. There was no derision in his friend’s face, but empathy as only another physician could understand.
“You’ll be my good friend Wynn MacCallan, duke of the northern Pict lands, champion of the weak, and fighter for extraordinary causes. Fighters don’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves. So get up and squire me to the pub.”
The rain had turned to a more Londonesque drizzle by the time they traversed the hall of mazes in the RMA and stepped out onto the street. A few brave souls hurried by, tucked under the safety of their brollies, while black taxis idled on the street corner in hopes of a fare.
Gerard started toward one of the taxis. “I know a good place in Mayfair—”
“Somewhere closer.” Wynn flipped up the collar of his coat. “I need to walk.”
“In that case, the Unholy Friar’s it is.” Gerard waved off the eager driver who scowled at Wynn. Whipping out a black brollie, Gerard plunked it over his head and followed Wynn. “Why must you Scots always insist on walking in the rain?”
“Clears the mind.”
“Brings about sinus pressure and soggy shoes, is more like it.”
Wynn dodged a slushy pothole. “Shall I carry you, ye wee softie Englishman?”
“I hope you’re not as insulting to that lovely wife of yours.”
The thought of Svetlana’s soft arms wrapped around his neck and her sweet breath near his ear sent Wynn’s heart thrumming. “She’d be more fun to carry, that’s for sure.”
“Why is she not here to curb your acerbic mood? I could certainly use the reprieve.”
And just like that all thrumming stuttered to a halt. He’d wanted her to come, had nearly said yes when she asked. The black velvet of her mourning gown washed out her face and dulled the purple beneath her eyes, but her wraps of sorrow did nothing to diminish the strength that had drawn him from the beginning. He should have taken her in his arms and kissed her senseless until there was no doubt how much he wanted her near him.
Then he’d seen Sergey hovering behind her with his declaration still ringing in Wynn’s ears. “We’re destined to be together.” How could Wynn take her to London as half a man? That was how he truly felt of late if he were being honest. He wanted to return to her and lay his reinstated license at her feet, clearing all dishonor from the name he had given her on their wedding day. All while begging an apology. If his time in London proved a failure, he would still tell her. Either way, she deserved the truth. Their marriage deserved the truth because real marriages were built on trust, and more than anything he wanted a real marriage with Svetlana.
“She remains at Thornhill,” Wynn said at last.
“Oh, that’s a pity. I should like to have seen her, then again, I know sitting through that interrogation day after day would have been rather distressing to someone of her regalness.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what?” Gerard tilted his brollie in defense against a spitting gutter over a bookshop. In an instant he whipped around, knocking Wynn’s hat askew with the tip of his umbrella. “You haven’t told her, man?”
“Let’s cut down the explanation and blame it on pride.” Wynn jammed his hat farther down on his head and hurried on.
Gerard dashed to keep up, splashing water on the back of Wynn’s legs. “Pride or not, you must tell her.”
The rainwater from Gerard’s splashing soaked through the back of Wynn’s trousers, clinging the material to his calves. He’d look no better than a drowned fish by the end of the day if this kept up. Par for the course. He felt about as low as one.
“I will. I wanted to before I left, but then . . . I’m telling her everything as soon as I return.” He needed to start practicing knee exercises. Groveling wasn’t a position he was accustomed to being in.
“You better. Woe to you if she finds out from someone else first.”
“For a man who hasn’t had much experience with women, you seem to know a lot about them.”
“Those novels I read happen to be very informative on the subject and anything they leave out my married brothers are quick to fill in. More than once they’ve found themselves sleeping on my sofa after a row with the wife. I’ve heard it all, and as an outside party can dispense advice without prejudice. My advice for you is this: talk to her before things get worse. Miscommunication laced with ego is the major downfall of most marriages.”
“Have you been reading those Freud theories again?”
“Jung actually, and psychoanalysis is not something we should ignore simply because it’s untested, much like your cardiology.”
Wetness slithered down the back of Wynn’s neck, dampening his collar. No matter how he tried to cover himself against the elements, they managed to find a crack.
“I only wanted to protect her.”
“I know you did, Wynn. That’s who you are.”
Rain slipped down the shop windows, coating them in a fine layer of gray mist. A white light twinkled through the gloom. Wynn moved to the storefront and stared at the beckoning display. His breath fogged the glass, but it didn’t dim the finely cut rocks’ glow with sparks of rainbow shooting through the centers. If ever Svetlana’s essence was embodied in an object, it was within these gems.
If she opted for an annulment, it would break his heart to watch her leave, but he wasn’t giving up without a fight.
“Go on to the pub, I’ll meet you there,” he said to Gerard as he opened the door to the shop. “I need to do something first.”
Chapter 26
Night wrapped the castle in dreamless slumber as Svetlana wandered the halls in solitude. Her fur-trimmed velvet robe trailed behind her, swishing softly with each of her slippered steps. Roaming had become a nightly ritual as restlessness chased her from bed to find contentment by less filling means. So far, she had yet to find said contentment. Its finding would only come when Wynn returned. Until then, planning a meeting with the people of Glentyre to discuss improvements for the village and wandering Thornhill like a proper ghost at night were her best options.
It was lonely—she was lonely—without him. When had he overtaken that chamber she’d secreted off, even upon occasion denied its existence? He’d strode in and set it ablaze. Every look, every laugh, touch, and smile fanned the flames. She could no more douse them than she could return to the isolated woman she’d been before.
What if he was stalling because of the scene he’d witnessed in the solarium with Sergey? Svetlana’s stomach twisted. Wynn couldn’t possibly think she still entertained feelings for Sergey, not after she’d told him otherwise. Was that another cause for his secrecy and standoffishness of late? Perhaps seeing Sergey in the flesh had triggered doubt in Wynn’s mind. As if romantic feelings for her old friend could be rekindled when her heart had passed into the possession of her husband. Did Wynn seek reassurance from her? Odd considering his confidence bordered closer to arrogance by the hour. Then again, confidence rarely held court over affairs of the heart. Even for a heart surgeon.
Like other specters calling to her from a night filled with music, Svetlana found herself in Thornhill’s Grand Hall as the shadows of falling snow danced in the blue light spilling across the polished floor. Deprived of music and revelry, the room held a silent breath as if patiently awaiting the next time it would be summoned to life for its grand purpose. In that quiet breath she remembered kilted lords and shimmering ladies, violin strings, piano keys, laughter, clinking champagne glasses. A carefree night sprinkled with stardust.
At the Blue Palace the ballroom had been her favorite place, aside from the outside flower garden, which spun its own delicate magic. As any proper Russian aristocrat, Svetlana was brought up in the art of dancing. The waltz, allemande, galop, mazurka, and quadrille. She could perform them in her sleep, but late at night when everyone was abed, she would slip down to the ballroom for the dancing that set her free. Intricate pirouettes, grand jetés, assemblés. Starting of
f in delicate movements of the adagio where her limbs flowed from one position to another like water, then faster and sharper to the allegro until her energy was spent and the lyrical music in her head would crescendo to an end.
Constance’s phonograph sat untouched in the corner of the room, silenced due to mourning. She’d brought it back from her latest trip to America. Crossing to it, Svetlana rifled through the stack of disc records as an urgency rippled through her like the slow flap of birds’ wings. Fast and faster the wings flapped until she thought they would burst straight out of her.
She’d been in mourning far too long. For Russia, for her life lost to the Revolution, the hardships, and deaths. Not since Sheremetev had she brought herself to dance again, and then the peace of moving had been tainted by his twisted usage. She wanted to feel alive again; she needed to feel herself come alive to the music and steps and an unyielding floor beneath her feet that transported her to a stage of magic and stardust.
Slipping the disc onto the machine, Svetlana touched the needle to the black grooves. The haunting harmony of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde floated out the tale of the foretold lost lovers in delight. Svetlana stretched her arms out to greet the chilled air in a dancer’s embrace as her feet slid to fifth position with opposite toe to opposite heel. A tremble ran up her legs, swirled around her stomach, lengthening along her spine until her scalp tingled with anticipation. Weighted burdens fell away as she came into herself. Her slippers glided effortlessly across the floor, the velvet fold of her robe rippling around her like water rings on a pond’s surface as the music’s rhythm flooded her soul.
Svetlana closed her eyes and gave herself to the stardust.
* * *
“Ye’ll be wanting me to ring for Glasby, aye, Yer Grace?” The old stable master took the horse’s reins from Wynn and gave the animal a pat on its sleek neck. Snowflakes puffed from his mane.
“No. I’ll manage.” Wynn unstrapped his small valise from behind the saddle. The handle was cold and wet from the snow. “I left my trunk at the train station. Have one of the grooms run to fetch it tomorrow morning.”
“Should’ve called for us and we’d’ve picked ye up instead of ye riding through the night hours.” Judging by his hastily tucked shirt and hair standing on ends, the man had been fast asleep when Wynn decided to ride home unannounced.
“I’m sorry for waking you. After the London rain and stuffy train compartment, I needed the fresh air on my face. Been too long since I’ve ridden.”
“London be for the stuffed shirts.” The stable master scrunched his nose in contempt. No love was lost for their neighbors past the southern border. “’Tis glad we are to be having ye back, Yer Grace.”
“Always glad to be back.”
Gripping his travel bag, Wynn strode across the well-tended yard pearlescent with freshly falling snow. Thornhill stood quietly in midnight shadows with a blue moon striking against its familiar corners and turrets. A welcome sight after his week of failure. The medical board had come to no conclusion and decided to reconvene at a later date when tempers weren’t raging. Many of the highly respected physicians in attendance had resorted to name-calling and vilifying the mental stability of one another. Horrifying as the scene had been, Wynn was grateful to have been forgotten in the melee. For good or bad, cardiology got people to talking.
Wynn slipped in the kitchen door and immediate warmth embraced him from the cooking fire, smoored down to its last embers of cherry red. Wynn squatted in front of the hearth and held out his frozen fingers. Leather gloves were well and good, but slushy winter air had a way of penetrating to a man’s bones.
Feeling returned to his extremities and he moved to the worktable where Cook had left out bannocks under a wire dome, per Scottish tradition. Apparently it was to keep the fae hungrily occupied instead of roaming the castle at night for mischief. Wynn had never heard of that tradition, but then, he didn’t hail from the deeply superstitious Highlands like some of his kitchen workers did. If there was one person in the house he wanted to keep happy, it was the cook and so the bannocks stayed. Except for the one he stuffed in his mouth to feed his growling belly. London was a long train ride.
Trudging up the servant’s stairs, he came out into the Stone Hall and sighed with relief. Home. Music plucked his ear. Was someone up at this hour? Dropping his bag on a bench beneath an ancient targe and broadsword, he followed the strains of the recorded melody. He’d always appreciated music but never had the ear for it; he could never tell the instruments apart. At the double doors of the Grand Hall he stopped dead in his tracks at the ethereal sight floating across the floor.
Svetlana dancing.
No, not dancing. It was more than that. She moved as if her skin and bones had peeled away to release her very soul. A piece long laid dormant was resuscitated as her arms circled high over her head, stretching herself into existence. Her pale arms and legs extended in graceful arcs with the airy folds of her robe wrapping and unwrapping around her movements like butterfly wings. Moonlight weaved between the strands of her plaited hair, refining it to pure silver. The music surged. Faster and faster she spun until she was no more than a ribbon of silver.
The air clenched in Wynn’s lungs. In that single moment his heart was irrevocably and irretrievably lost with no hope of ever reclaiming it.
The music ended. Svetlana stilled on the points of her toes. Her eyelids fluttered open, and her eyes locked onto his. Slowly she lowered her feet flat to the floor. Her position settled into one of familiar cool reserve, yet there was a rawness lingering along her edges, a shimmering residue of her soul that had yet to be drawn back in.
A smile played about her lips. “You’re home.”
Her voice drowned his battered ego and flamed a desire to come alive as she had been. To come alive with her. The war, the medical board, pride, and death fell away until nothing stood before him but her. The one he loved.
He crossed the distance between them in a matter of strides and took her face between his hands, hesitating long enough to inhale her gasp of surprise before covering her mouth with his. She tasted of mint, soothing yet with a sharpness that pierced through every part of him. Her body eased against his as she responded to his touch with equal fervor. She stole into him, lighting fire to his veins, and blood, and bones until he was wholly consumed with her brightness.
Svetlana pulled away. Cool air brushed across Wynn’s heated lips. “Is this how you greet your wife?”
“Would she rather I didn’t?” His voice came out ragged.
“She would rather you had done it sooner.” Her fingernails dragged across the back of his neck.
It was all the encouragement he needed. Pouring every unspoken word and tenderness into the kiss, he held her as he’d dreamed of doing for so long. Never would she doubt the way he felt about her, how much he wanted her, how much he needed her. For so long he thought she called to a lost part of him, but he now realized it had never been lost, merely half formed. She gave him promise of being whole.
“I’m glad I didn’t stay in London one more night.” He touched his forehead to hers, savoring her nearness.
“I was expecting you to send word on when you were to return. I should have remembered your need to surprise me at unexpected moments.”
The past week came rushing back, the full weight of it no longer to be ignored. He leaned back and steadied himself. He loathed to break the moment, but it was past time to confess.
“My days in London—”
She placed a slender finger against his lips. “Shh. There is plenty of time to tell me later.”
“I need to tell you what really happened—”
“Tomorrow. Can we not have tonight?”
If they were ever to move forward, honesty must thrive between them. To hold back the truth was selfish. Or was it selfish to cleanse himself of his lies and ease his conscience when she pleaded for one single night together? How could he deny her?
“Wait right here.”
He jogged out to the hall and rifled through his valise to pull out a thin leather box and a velvet pouch. Back in the Grand Hall, he placed the box next to the phonograph and crooked his finger at Svetlana. “Hold out your hand.”
He cupped her offered hand in his and felt the delicate bones tremble. Such a simple thing to touch another’s hand. He’d touched hers often enough, but never like this, with each brush of skin creating a new sensation of intimacy. He turned the pouch upside down and out tumbled the sparkling contents. Earrings in the shape of cascading stars.
“Lana, you fell from heaven and straight into my life. What a lucky man I am.”
Unmoving, she stared down at them. Uncertainty shifted Wynn’s surge of confidence. Had he done something wrong? Was it too much too quickly? “I know you’re more accustomed to imperial jewels—”
“These are more precious than any royal jewel. You gave them to me.” Tears studded her long lashes as she looked up. She fitted the earrings into her ears, the largest star resting at the top as the smaller stars dangled along her jaw.
Wynn touched one of the trailing stars. “Prekrasnaya.” Beautiful. One of the first Russian words he’d learned from his lessons with Mrs. Varjensky.
“Spasibo.”
“I have one more thing.” He popped off the leather box’s lid and took out the record. An impulse purchase from the newly opened music store next door to his London hotel. Shiny and black, this record had been propped in the display window waiting to catch his eye. Waiting to be played for its rightful master. Placing it on the turntable, he lowered the arm and touched the needle to the grooves. Tchaikovsky’s The Sleeping Beauty waltz filtered through the horn. “Will you dance for me?”
A smile curved her mouth. She stepped slowly back from him, her eyes never leaving his as she pulled the ribbon tie from her hair and shook out the mass of silvery waves reaching nearly to her waist. Wynn sucked in a breath. He’d never seen it entirely loose before. She became a candle flame dancing in the breeze, alive and carefree, spinning about with her gaze seeking to find him in the blue darkness. How amazing was the human form when given to the creativity of its abilities, but none so mesmerizing or alluring as her in this simplistic beauty. Limbs stretching out, spine curved, neck elongated. His living fire. Would he be consumed if he touched her?
The Ice Swan Page 30
