“Who is the woman?” he roared.
“It is a long journey. I bring my whore along for company. I have vodka, too. Come, I will give you a bottle. You are out here in the cold all night. The vodka will warm your blood.”
“You do not sound like Josef!” the guard rumbled.
“Is your imagination, comrade. Come, I share my vodka with you. I even share my whore.”
The guard hesitated a moment, still suspicious, and then, rifle held firmly at the ready, he moved cautiously toward the sleigh. My heart was pounding. I held my breath. Jeremy braced his feet firmly on the floor of the sleigh and tightened his leg muscles, ready to spring. His hand slipped under his sheepskin coat and gripped the hilt of the knife, slowly pulling it out. The guard advanced slowly, and Jeremy waited until he was almost upon us, then he sprang out of the sleigh and knocked the rifle out of the guard’s arms. It clattered noisily on the ice, skittering several feet away.
Stunned, the burly Goliath staggered for a moment, recovering himself as Jeremy drove the knife toward his heart. He grabbed Jeremy’s wrist, twisting it viciously, and they struggled for a moment, grappling like two clumsy dancers, then Jeremy whipped his left leg behind the guard’s right leg and shoved mightily and the guard toppled over backward, Jeremy crashing down on top of him, dropping the knife. They rolled on the ice, grunting, pounding, thrashing, and the horse neighed, stamping nervously on the ice.
The guard was on top of Jeremy now, so much larger, so much heavier, and Jeremy squirmed and bucked like a crazed bronco, trying to throw him off, and somehow he managed to slam his knee up into the guard’s groin and roll aside, throwing himself on the guard’s back, slinging an arm around his throat, but the man was too large, too powerful, and he easily tore free of the stranglehold and slung Jeremy aside and pounced on top of him again, his huge fingers curling around Jeremy’s throat, squeezing mercilessly. Paralyzed with shock, I saw that Jeremy was growing weaker, weaker. Teeth bared, dark eyes glittering in the moonlight, the guard squeezed as Jeremy gripped his wrists, trying to tear the hands away from his throat.
Something snapped inside me and I was startled to find myself on the ice, reaching for the rifle that had skittered away when the guard dropped it. You can’t shoot him, a voice shrilled inside my head, they’ll hear the shot, and I saw Mitya grabbing the rifle by the barrel as I stood on the stairs and I took hold of the barrel and slipped on the ice and almost fell. I stumbled over to the men and swung the rifle back over my shoulder and swung the butt down with all my strength, and my arms jarred painfully as it made contact with the guard’s skull, thumping loudly. The butt splintered, broke into pieces, and the guard threw his arms up and slumped forward, covering Jeremy’s face with his chest.
There was a moment of dreadful silence, the night still all around, moonlight gilding the ice with silver, horse motionless, casting a long black shadow over the silvered ice. I knew Jeremy was dead and I knew I couldn’t go on living without him, there was no point, no purpose, without Jeremy life would have no meaning, and then I heard a groan. Grunting, he heaved and managed to shove the guard off him and sat up, looking at me with dazed eyes. He had lost his hat. A heavy chestnut wave fell across his forehead like a huge inverted comma, the point just above his right eye. He sighed, leaning back on his palms. I was still gripping the barrel of the rifle. I tossed it aside. Jeremy climbed to his feet and staggered, grabbing the side of the sleigh for support.
“Jesus,” he croaked hoarsely.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, wave flopping, and I dug among the blankets and found one of the canteens and handed it to him. He opened it and took several gulps as I gathered up his hat and his knife. The guard was still motionless, a gigantic heap sprawling there in the moonlight. Jeremy screwed the top back onto the canteen and took the knife and thrust it in his waistband and pushed the wave back and squashed the fluffy black sheepskin hat over his head.
“Do—do you think he’ll be all right?” I asked foolishly, pointing to the guard.
“Not in this world, love. Maybe in the next.”
“He’s—dead?”
“You bashed his skull in.”
“I—I didn’t even know what I was doing. I just—he was choking you to death, and—you’re certain he’s dead?”
“Quite certain.”
“Well, then, I—I suppose we might as well be on our way.”
Jeremy shook his head, a grin beginning to form on his lips. “You know, you’re pretty handy to have around.”
“I try to hold up my end,” I said primly.
“Why didn’t you just shoot him?”
“They would have heard the shot—remember?”
I climbed back into the sleigh and adjusted the folds of my garnet velvet skirt and adjusted the cloak and pulled the blankets up over my knees. Jeremy sighed heavily and massaged his throat for a moment and then climbed in beside me, covering his own legs, spreading the fur rug over us. I could feel a delayed reaction beginning to set in, and I had to fight hard to keep from shaking all over. Jeremy picked up the reins and clicked them, and we were on our way again, swaying, gliding over the ice, the horse clopping along at a brisker pace than before.
It had stopped snowing. The sky was a deep purple-black filled with ashy gray clouds brushed with silver. The moonlight was brighter than ever, liquid silver bathing the ice and snow. Neither of us spoke for a long time. Jeremy coughed now and then and rubbed his sore throat. We followed the frozen river for several miles, and then we turned into a crude road that wound through the woods, so narrow there was barely enough room for the sleigh, and this eventually led to the main road.
“It should be safe to use this tonight,” Jeremy said. “Tomorrow we will have to use the back roads.”
“I wonder what time it is.”
“Two-thirty, three—somewhere around there.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Starving, in fact. I’d love a big bowl of steaming hot soup and a couple of pork chops and a baked potato dripping with fresh butter.”
“Afraid you’ll have to settle for what’s in the bag,” he told me. “Hardly gourmet fare, but the best I could do on short notice.”
A thin covering of clouds floated across the moon and the silver faded into a pale pewter, the night dark gray spread with blue-black shadows. I pulled open the bag and rummaged through it and finally removed a chunk of bread and a long, tough link of sausage. The bread was coarse and grainy but had a wonderful flavor, and, though tough, the sausage was delicious.
“You might hand me an apple,” Jeremy said.
I did so. He took a noisy bite. The horse was moving at a steady clip as though enjoying the exercise, and the wide wooden runners skimmed smoothly over the hard-packed snow. It was snug and warm under the layers of cover, our bodies close, and the cold air stroking our faces was invigorating and refreshing. Jeremy finished the apple and tossed the core aside. I chewed the sausage and tore off another piece of bread.
“We’re no longer pressed for time,” I observed.
“That’s true.”
“You have quite a lot of explaining to do.”
“Guess I do,” he admitted.
“Why don’t we start with London—and the blonde.”
“Her name is Laura. She’s twenty-four years old, unmarried and extremely devoted to her brother Stephen, Lord Bramley, a charming, irresponsible rapscallion with whom I attended Oxford. Stephen was like a brother to me in the old days, helped me out of many a scrape. Only natural I should agree to help him out when, three days after you left, his lovely sister called on me at The White Hart and begged me to rush to his aid.”
“How lovely?”
“Very. Hair like pale yellow gold, eyes as blue as morning glories, complexion like cream, and a body like—well, a very nice body indeed. I remembered her as a scrawny brat with pigtails and freckles, slipping clammy frogs into my bed when I visited Stephen at Bramley Hall. I always longed to thrash the littl
e hellion. Fifteen years can make a lot of difference.”
“Go on.”
“Brother Stephen had jaunted off to Scotland and got himself engaged to a rather shrewish but extremely wealthy heiress—father’s a wool magnate, owns a dozen factories. Dreadful chap, ruddy cheeks, ginger whiskers, fierce eyes and a voice like thunder. Anyway, though direly in need of money, Stephen decided he’d best abandon the testy heiress and her even testier papa and four hulking brothers—I forgot to tell you about the brothers.”
“I suppose you’ll eventually come to the point,” I said patiently.
“Stephen bade the querulous Fiona farewell and started packing and before he’d folded his shirts two burly constables burst into his room and he was arrested for breach of promise and found himself clapped into the darkest, dankest cell in Edinburgh. Papa had filed a complaint, hired a slew of tricky advocates.”
“So you and Laura went to Edinburgh to extricate him,” I said, “and you took my money with you.”
“I had to borrow it, love. I had to use it to hire a slew of even trickier advocates. It took almost two months of legal hassle and quite a chunk of the money, but Stephen was finally a free man. The first thing he did when he got back to England was sell a third of his land and return the money I’d used for bribes, legal fees, and the settlement awarded the sweet Fiona.”
“What about Laura?” I asked.
“She’s currently trying to reform her brother. Laura’s a strong believer in reform—all kinds of reform. Prints up pamphlets about the evils of demon gin and distributes them in person in all the grub shops in London. Works for the church. Runs a home for fallen women. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s a self-righteous woman—” Jeremy sighed and shook his head. “And with a body like that—such a waste.”
“I think you’re lying!” I snapped.
“Would I lie?”
“You certainly would! What about the money?”
“It’s in a bank in New Orleans. I had it transferred there before I left for Russia. In your name, love.”
I was surprised. “New Orleans?”
“I figured we’d be heading there eventually. On our way to Texas.”
I didn’t say anything for a while. I finished the bread and sausage, and then I took several swallows of water from one of the canteens. His explanation was convincing enough—it would be like Jeremy to drop everything in order to rush to the aid of a friend—but I didn’t believe a word he said about Laura. He asked for another apple. I handed him one. He took a big bite and yelled and started crying. I’d handed him a raw onion by mistake. He accused me of doing it deliberately. I protested my innocence. He brushed tears from his smarting eyes and grumpily took the apple I offered, examining it carefully before biting into it.
“I fully expected you to be waiting for me at The White Hart when I finally got back to London,” he told me.
“Why—why would you have expected that?”
“I knew you’d never stay with Derek Hawke, Marietta. I knew you were in love with me, knew it was only a matter of time before you realized that, saw what was in your own heart. I was prepared to wait.”
“You—were?”
“I was prepared to give you a week. If you hadn’t returned by then I intended to go fetch you, drag you back to London by your hair if I had to, and then Laura appeared on my doorstep—” He gripped the reins tightly as we hit a bump and the sleigh skidded.
“And you went off to Scotland,” I finished for him.
“Had no idea I’d be gone quite so long. I left a letter for you at The White Hart.”
“You—” I could hardly get the words out. “You left a letter?”
“Explaining everything. Asking you to wait.”
“I—never—I never received it.”
Jeremy nodded curtly, his mouth tight. “I know. Mrs. Patterson wasn’t at the desk when I went downstairs, neither was her husband. I gave the letter to his cloddish nephew. He was lounging behind the desk, filling in for a few minutes while his uncle was in the yard. I asked him to tell his uncle to see that you got it as soon as you returned.”
“Oh, Jeremy—”
“When I got back to The White Hart I found out that you had indeed been there, asking for me, but no one knew anything about the letter. After much searching, it was found stuck between the pages of an old ledger. If Patterson’s nephew hadn’t already gone back to the country I would have killed him with my bare hands.”
“If I had gotten that letter, I—” I hesitated, scarcely able to speak. “I would never have come to Russia. None—none of this would ever have happened.”
“Life does play its little tricks on us,” he said grimly.
I stared straight ahead, watching the horse’s head nod up and down as he clipped along, watching the pewter ribbon of road unrolling before us, ice encrusted limbs hanging overhead. If Jeremy had handed the letter to Mrs. Patterson, to her husband, even to the maid Tibby, I would never have left London. I would have waited there for him, impatient, filled with my love, and instead of fleeing through the night in the Russian wilderness we would be in Texas now. The irony of it was like a sharp pain in my heart. All that suffering, all that grief, all because a cloddish lout thrust the letter between the pages of a ledger instead of giving it to his uncle.
“I was distraught,” Jeremy said. “I was almost out of my mind. I had no idea where you were, had no idea what had happened to you. I went to all the shipping offices, all the coach houses, trying to find out if you had left the city and, if so, where you had gone. I hired a coach and went down to see Hawke. I questioned him. I learned nothing. I met his wife and saw their infant son.”
“So—so they have a son,” I said. “Derek has Hawke-house and the heir he wanted. I hope he’s happy.”
I meant it. Jeremy gave a short, bitter laugh.
“He’s never going to be happy,” he told me. “He lost the one thing in the world he really wanted. He has the house, the heir, a lovely and charming wife, but he doesn’t have you.”
I didn’t say anything. Jeremy tightened his grip on the reins, his profile stony.
“He’s still in love with you, Marietta. He’ll never be able to forgive himself for not marrying you when he had the chance.”
“That’s—too bad,” I said.
“You don’t care?”
“I would like for him to be happy, but—Derek is the past, Jeremy. I wasted an awful lot of years over him, but I came out of it, and I learned the true meaning of love when—when you came into my life.”
“Hawke no longer matters to you?”
“No one matters to me but you, Jeremy, and if you expect any more confessions of tender regard you’re bloody well going to be disappointed. You know damn well how I feel about you.”
Jeremy grinned. “Yes, I guess I do.”
“So you saw Derek and learned nothing of my whereabouts. I assume you went back to London.”
“And placed notices in all the papers, offering a reward for any information about you. I took myself down to Bow Street and used some of my connections there and had half a dozen runners scouring the city for any trace of you. Like I said, I was almost out of my mind, and then, three weeks later, I had a caller—Sir Harry Lyman. He’d been at his club and just happened to pick up a paper, just happened to see the notice I’d placed in it. He came to see me immediately, and I learned about your accident and learned you’d come to Russia with Count Gregory Orlov and his niece.”
“Thank God for Sir Harry,” I said,
“It seemed to take forever to get to Russia,” he continued. “I came by ship—everyone advised me against an overland journey this time of year. Spent the whole journey fretting and fuming and studying Russian—a chap on board, minor Russian diplomat, gave me lessons. He also told me a hell of a lot about the man you left England with.”
“Oh?”
“Were you his mistress?”
“I was paid companion to his niece.”
<
br /> “Did you sleep with him?”
“Go on with your story, Jeremy.”
“Did you?”
I refused to answer and Jeremy looked very cross and finally, seeing he would get no more out of me, clicked the reins angrily and accidentally gave them a severe jerk and the horse reared in panic and the sleigh skidded wildly to a stop and blankets and bags and canteens tumbled out onto the icy surface of the road. So did Jeremy, landing quite ungracefully on his backside and cracking the back of his head as he fell over.
“God damn!” he cried.
“That was beautiful,” I said calmly. “Would you like to do it again? I didn’t get a really good look the first time.”
“Shut up, Marietta. I feel dazed. I feel dizzy. Christ, I think I’ve hurt myself.”
“I imagine you’ll survive,” I said.
I climbed out of the sleigh and went around to calm the horse, stroking its neck gently, speaking to it in a soothing voice. Jeremy climbed shakily to his feet and began to sling blankets back into the sleigh. The moon came out again, its rays not as bright as before, and everything turned pale silver and soft silver-gray, shadows deep amethyst with only a faint suggestion of black. Jeremy brought a large cloth bag around to where I stood, thrusting it at me with considerable hostility.
“Since you’re so bloody concerned about the bloody horse you might just as well give it some oats while you’re at it.”
“You brought oats for the horse? Jeremy, how sweet of you to remember. Here, sweetheart, have some oats—that’s right, eat them out of my hand. I imagine you’re starved, poor darling.”
Jeremy stomped about, tossing more things back into the sleigh, cursing again when he dropped the food bag and food scattered over the ground and he had to gather it up. I dipped my hand into the bag, bringing out more oats, and the horse nibbled them greedily, its lips moist against my palm. It was lovely here, the night so still, the moonlight gleaming, and I felt curiously serene as I fed the horse, as the man I loved grumbled about his minor exertions.
When Love Commands Page 52
