Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  Unable to meet his employer’s gaze, Captain Snow said, “Come on into the main salon, Master Jared.” Not even bothering to wait for a reply, he walked into the ship’s interior. There just wasn’t any easy way to do this, so he turned to face Jared and the words came quickly, tumbling out with brutal force. He ended by shoving Miranda’s wedding ring into Jared’s hand, and then bursting into unashamed sobs. The tears poured down his weathered face into his salt-and-pepper beard while Jared, rigid with shock, stood staring at the gold band, its tiny stars twinkling mockingly at him. Then to Captain Snow’s immense horror Jared Dunham cried, “Damn her! Damn her to hell for the wayward bitch she is! Any other woman would have stayed put, but not her! Not her!” Violently he jammed the ring into his pocket. “I don’t hold you responsible, Eph,” he said a little more quietly, and then stormed from the yacht.

  Striding purposefully down the quay, Jared headed to the Mermaid. Slamming into the inn’s taproom, he called for a bottle of brandy and proceeded to get drunk. Ephraim Snow discreetly followed his employer, sick with worry, but the innkeeper knew a desperate man when he saw one, and had already called Lord Dunham’s servants. When Ephraim Snow entered the inn he saw them: Jared’s valet, Mr. Mitchum; Martin the coachman; and Miranda’s maid, Perky. Ephraim signaled to the three to join him, and then tersely told them of the tragedy.

  “God have mercy on her,” sobbed Perky. “She was a good mistress, she was. She wanted everyone about her to be happy.”

  “I think,” said Mr. Mitchum, who was the senior servant, “that we had best let his lordship get good and drunk. When he finally collapses we will load him into the coach, and proceed back to Swynford Hall. Lord Dunham’s brother and brother-in-law will know how to handle the situation from there.”

  Ephraim Snow nodded. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” he said. “I’ll tag along with you, if you don’t mind, Mr. M.”

  “I should be obliged to you for your help, Captain,” came the reply. “It may be a difficult trip back.”

  Alfred Mitchum had no idea how really terrible a coach trip could be. Miranda did. During the first few days after her abduction Sasha kept her in a drug-induced sleep. Occasionally she would become aware of the movement of the coach, but the second he caught her returning to consciousness he would force the bitter-tasting water down her throat, and she would tumble back into the dreamless darkness. After some days, in the few moments of lucidity she had, she realized she must stop him from drugging her further. She needed to think out her situation.

  The next time she began her perilous return to consciousness she was careful to not alter the rhythm of her breathing, or open her eyes. Gradually her thoughts began to focus, but she had a dreadful headache. Finally, after several hours, she could no longer hold her cramped position, and to Sasha’s surprise she sat up. He quickly reached for the silver flask, but she stayed his hand.

  “Please, no more of whatever it is you’ve been giving me. I am your prisoner. I don’t even know where I am.” He looked at her closely. “Please,” she begged softly. “My head is simply throbbing. I promise I’ll give you no trouble.”

  “All right,” he said finally. “But a wrong move on your part, and I’ll pour the whole damn flask down your throat.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me. I’m just tired of playing nursemaid to you. Now I won’t have to diaper you, either. You can take care of your own needs.”

  “Oh!” Miranda blushed beet-red.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered a little less sharply, “the coach would’ve stunk if I hadn’t taken proper care of you.”

  “Please, sir.”

  He laughed. “Quite the lady, aren’t you? Call me Sasha. Actually I’m Pieter Vladimirnovich, but I’ve always been called Sasha. Your first name is Miranda, I know, but what was your papa’s name?”

  “Thomas.”

  “Then your proper name is Miranda Thomasova, but I’m going to call you Mirushka.”

  “No,” she said, “I am Miranda Dunham, wife to Jared Dunham, the lord of Wyndsong Manor.”

  “Were you really his wife? She said you were only his mistress.”

  “Who said?”

  “Prince Alexei’s mistress, Gillian.”

  “Gillian Abbott?”

  “Yes. She was an appalling bitch. She said you had stolen Lord Dunham from her, and that he’d be grateful to be rid of you. She said she owed him a favor.”

  “Then I have her to thank for my current predicament! God, I’ll throttle the bitch myself when I get my hands on her!”

  “Easy, easy, Mirushka,” cautioned Sasha, his hand on the silver flask.

  For a moment her sea-green eyes flashed angrily, but then she said, “I’m not angry at you, Sasha, but your prince has been very badly misled. Lady Abbott’s reputation in London was not of the best. She always went to the highest bidder, even when poor old Lord Abbott was still alive. Please, Sasha, turn the coach back to St. Petersburg. My husband will reward you for my return.”

  “No,” he said. “I saw you first, you know, in the Jew’s store. Jews aren’t usually allowed in St. Petersburg, but this one has the Tzar’s patronage. Besides, they’re good at running shops, and if they didn’t, who would?” He chuckled. “Anyway, I saw you in Bimberg’s. I was there purchasing a pair of lavender kid gloves for the prince’s woman, and you came in with a sea captain.”

  “Captain Snow,” she said.

  “Alexei Vladimirnovich has been looking for several years for a woman with your coloring. Lucas has the same coloring. The moment I saw you I hurried to tell the prince. He might not have taken you if his woman hadn’t convinced him that you were an unimportant creature.”

  “But in my world I am important,” said Miranda, desperately trying to convince him to turn back. “I am a great heiress, I am married to a very important American!”

  “America is a long, long way from Russia, Mirushka, and it is a savage, unimportant backwater. America doesn’t matter.”

  “My husband’s title is English, Sasha, and my sister is married to a very important English milord.”

  “Gillian said your sister was in America with your mother.”

  “She lied to you, Sasha! Our mama is in America, the wife of a rich and powerful man, but my sister is the Duchess of Swynford and her husband is quite close to the Prince Regent.” As she spoke she wondered if Amanda would appreciate her elevation in rank.

  “I suspected she might not be telling the whole truth,” replied Sasha, nodding proudly. “I told the prince so, and on the chance that she was lying he devised a plan so that your disappearance would not be questioned. No matter who you really are, you will not be missed. Your life is now here in Russia on Alexei Vladimirnovich’s slave-breeding farm. You will be very well taken care of, Mirushka. All you must do is have babies.”

  I am having some awful kind of nightmare, Miranda thought.

  “Why will my disappearance not be questioned, Sasha?”

  “Because you are dead,” was the calm reply.

  Miranda shuddered, but her voice held not the faintest hint of the panic she was feeling. “I do not understand, Sasha.”

  “The prince’s woman, Gillian, let her hair grow and dyed it blond when she escaped from England,” Sasha began. He explained everything to her. When he was through, Miranda sat very still, listening to the rhythmic gall-op, gall-op of the horses as their hooves hit the road. Dead! Dead! Dead! went the mocking refrain. Jared! she cried out in her mind. Don’t believe them! Oh, my love, don’t believe them! Don’t believe them! I am alive! I am alive!

  “Mirushka, are you all right?” His voice was anxious.

  “I am Miranda Dunham, wife to the lord of Wyndsong Manor,” she said. “I am not dead! No one will believe it! Gillian Abbott doesn’t look anything like me!”

  “Do you know what a body looks like after several days in the water with the fish nibbling on it, Mirushka?” She blanched, and he continued. “Besides, who
is to connect Alexei Vladimirnovich with your disappearance? You never met except when he took you in his coach, and no one could identify the coach as his. It isn’t like the time with Princess Tumanova’s governess.”

  “What do you mean, Sasha?”

  “Two years ago,” began Sasha, “my master became quite intrigued with a little French girl who had come to be governess to Princess Tumanova’s children. She was really an exquisite creature, with silky yellow-gold hair and gray eyes. Alexei Vladimirnovich wanted her for Lucas, and so he lured her from St. Petersburg. Unfortunately, the silly girl left her mistress a note. The princess was quite furious, and complained bitterly to the Tzar, who warned the prince that there could be no more scandals concerning the farm. Of course, he didn’t scold my master too harshly, as Alexei Vladimirnovich pays the Romanovs handsome revenues each year. Revenues that come from the farm’s operation.”

  “What happened to the French girl?” asked Miranda.

  “She’s still at the farm, of course. She fell in love with Lucas, and has borne him two children already. You will love Lucas, too. All his women do. He is a bit simple, but quite sweet-natured.”

  “I will not love Lucas, Sasha. I will not be mated like some pedigreed animal. I will not produce children for a slave market. I hate slavery! I would rather be dead!”

  “Do not be foolish, Mirushka. You have no choice in this matter. You must do as you’re told. We all must.”

  “You cannot make me, Sasha,” she said grimly.

  “Yes, Mirushka, we can. If you do not cooperate you will be forced. Come now, lovely one, do not make it painful. Lucas is not some ravening beast. He will do his duty as he knows the master expects him to do, but he would sooner be kind to you, I know.”

  “Where are we?” she asked, pretending only to want a change of subject.

  “South of Kiev,” he said, unaware that he should not tell her. “We will be in Odessa late this afternoon, and at the farm tonight. It is located about twenty miles from Odessa.”

  Miranda’s mind quickly pictured the map of Russia. Thank God she had paid attention to those dull geography lessons their governess had forced on them. “Good heavens!” she gasped. “How long have we been traveling?”

  “Almost six days.”

  “Six days! That’s impossible!”

  “Not really. We have traveled around the clock. Are you hungry, Mirushka? We will be stopping to change horses again soon. Perhaps some soup, a bit of chicken, and fruit?”

  She nodded. Then, huddling in a corner of the coach, she lapsed into silence. Odessa was on the Black Sea. The Ottoman Empire was nearby, and the Turks were allies of the English. She would need time to get her bearings. Could she hold off Sasha and this Lucas until she had formulated a plan? She must not panic. Above all, she must not panic.

  The coach rambled on across the countryside. She wondered how far it was to the Turkish border and then how far to Constantinople from there. If Prince Cherkessky’s farm was on the sea perhaps she could steal a boat. It would probably be safer to flee by water. No farmhouses, dogs, or people to question her. If she hid her hair—no, she would have to cut it short, probably dye it too, but if she did and then stuffed it beneath a cap and dressed like a boy … She glanced ruefully at her breasts, no longer petite, but round and full since little Tom’s birth. Well, she would need a tight band to flatten them. In a small boat, and from a distance, who would know she was a woman?

  A compass! She would need a compass. Did they have such things in this part of the world? It would hardly do to escape in the wrong direction. How Jared would tease her about that! Jared. She felt the tears spill from her eyes. Would he believe she was dead? Dear heaven, what other choice would he have in the face of such overwhelming evidence? I love you, Jared, her mind repeated over and over again. I love you! I love you!

  Sasha left her to her feelings. He did not particularly care for women, never having received kindness from one. His unmarried mother had been chief maid to Alexei Vladimirnovich’s mother, and although no one had ever told him, he knew that his father had been the late Prince Vladimir Cherkessky himself. He had been born seven months after his master’s youngest sister. Sasha had been lucky. He might have been dumped onto one of the Cherkessky estates to be raised an uneducated serf, but Princess Alexandra had found him a pretty baby, and wanted to honor her favorite servant. He had been placed in the family nursery, and at the breast of the family wet nurse. When he was five, and Alexei Vladimirnovich eight, he had joined the boy who was to be his master in the family schoolroom. He was actually there as the prince’s whipping boy. If Alexei Vladimirnovich was careless in his lessons, it was little Sasha who received the beating, for it was unthinkable that the prince’s person be touched by a humble governess or tutor.

  During his first six months in the schoolroom there was rarely a day he wasn’t whipped thoroughly by the governess, an embittered French émigrée noblewoman who had just escaped the Revolution in her native land. Impoverished, she was forced to earn her living. Sasha represented to her the peasants of her own country who had dared to rebel so violently against their masters, against the natural order of things. She vented her fury on the helpless child. Unfortunately for Sasha, the prince was a lazy student.

  The younger boy, however, had a phenomenal memory, and quickly caught up with the older one. Soon, to Alexei Vladimirnovich’s acute embarrassment, he was surpassing his master. The prince began to learn his lessons, and Mademoiselle was forced to curtail her abuse of Sasha. When the prince was twelve she was replaced by an English tutor, Mr. Bradbury, whose British sense of fair play caused him to treat the boys as equals. Alexei Vladimirnovich tolerated this, for it made his body servant a far more interesting companion and confidant, and he was now the Prince Cherkessky, his father having died in a wild race down the frozen Neva. Five noblemen had taken part in the sled race that had left Prince Vladimir Cherkessky and his current mistress dead, three others injured, and one woman crippled for life.

  The prince had only been fourteen, and though haughtily aware of his position, he needed the friendship of a grown man. Mr. Bradbury had willingly supplied that friendship, and soon he had affectionately introduced the boy to his first sexual experience. A year later Sasha was initiated into their pleasure. The Englishman and the prince also enjoyed ladies. Sasha, however, did not. He had learned young not to trust women. His own mother had never even held him, let alone given him a hug or a kiss.

  No, Sasha didn’t particularly care for women, but this one he was traveling with didn’t seem a bad sort at all. He had expected hysteria, even an attempt at physical violence, when she regained consciousness. He had fully expected he would have to keep her drugged the entire trip, perhaps even the first few days at the farm, but here she was this last day of the trip fully conscious, and quiet. She had asked him relatively intelligent questions, knew enough to keep quiet, and did not talk all the time.

  For the briefest moment he stared at her and was sad. The story she had told him of her background was obviously the truth. He hadn’t for a moment believed that bitch Gillian.

  The coach rumbled on down the badly paved and rutted road across the high central plateau that led to the city of Odessa. The city, which descended in terraces from its heights, had originally been the site of an ancient Greek settlement. The first city was gone by the fourth century A.D. In the fourteenth century a Tatar chief built a fort on the site, which was captured two centuries later by the Ottoman Turks. Then, seventeen years before Miranda was to visit the city, the Russians had captured it and built a fort and a naval base.

  It was a lovely city, its streets laid out in sections of tree-lined rectangles. The coach slowed to accommodate itself to the city traffic, but neither of its inhabitants woke. Miranda’s young and healthy body was quickly throwing off the effects of several days of the opium elixir, and she slept a deep and restful sleep, sure she would find a way out of this. Next to her, Sasha, certain that his charge would be
have sensibly, snored lightly. They were roused simultaneously when the coach stopped at the gates of Prince Cherkessky’s huge estate.

  “Hey, Sasha, wake up!” The Russian dialect penetrated their consciousnesses, and both awoke.

  “Hello, Misha, open up. I’ve a precious new cargo for the farm.”

  “Who’s this one for?”

  “Lucas. Alexei Vladimirnovich finally found him the perfect mate.”

  The gatekeeper leered in at Miranda, making smacking noises. “Whew! That’s a tasty morsel. Lucas is a lucky bastard, all right, and I know he’ll enjoy fucking this one, but I don’t think the little French girl will be too happy. She’s been his favorite for quite a while.”

  “Too bad about her! Open up now. We’ve had a long trip, and the quicker I get Mirushka settled the faster we can get down to business.”

  “What was he saying,” she asked, flushing, not quite sure she needed a translation.

  “He was admiring you and envying Lucas,” came the reply.

  “Oh.” She was silent a moment, and then said, “How can I speak to your Lucas? I don’t know Russian.”

  “You’ll have to learn then, won’t you,” he said, but seeing the stricken look on her face, relented. After all, the prince wanted her happy. “Lucas has a natural flair for languages, Mirushka. He knows God knows how many Russian dailects; some German, for two of his women are from the Rhine valley; and his French is excellent thanks to the French girl, Mignon. I don’t think you’ll be doing too much talking though,” he finished.

  “You’re horrid!” she declared angrily. “If, however, your Lucas does speak French I shall explain my situation to him. Surely he will not rape another man’s lawful wife. I’m afraid your prince’s plans for me will be foiled, and you will have to let me go. You could tell the prince I died, and then go back to St. Petersburg to be with him. You miss him already, I can tell.”

  He ignored the first part of her speech. Why bother to explain to her that Lucas would do what he was told because he was a dutiful slave? “If I returned to St. Petersburg and told the prince you’d died, he’d kill me,” he said simply. “And he would be justified, for you are a very precious possession of his, and I have been entrusted with your care. I have served Alexei Vladimirnovich since I was five years old, and never have I disappointed him!”