Daughter of the God-King

by Anne Cleeland

  “I feared her bosom was going to fall out of her dress,” he confessed in amusement, “and I believe every man on board feared the same thing.”

  “Hoped, you mean,” Hattie corrected him. “God bless Eugenie.”

  During their trip down the Nile, the other woman had offered one of her dresses to Hattie, who had nothing but the bedraggled sprig muslin in which she had arrived. Hattie wore Eugenie’s dress now and was grateful even though it was several sizes too large and required her to lift the hem to walk.

  Holding her arms over her head to stretch her back, Hattie wondered how much longer before they left for the open sea and she could go above decks and once more feel the sun. A soft knock on the door made her swing her legs over the side and straighten her skirts; Eugenie would not knock. “Come in.”

  The captain poked his head through the door. “Would you come with me for a moment, madam?”

  Lifting the too-long skirt, Hattie followed him to his quarters where he opened the cabin door and signaled her inside, making no comment. She stood within the cabin as the door shut behind her and stared at the captain’s berth, which featured the prone figure of her husband.

  She stood in complete shock for a moment, then advanced carefully. He was asleep, fully clothed even to his dusty boots, one arm flung across his forehead. Moving slowly, she knelt next to the berth and leaned back on her legs, drinking in the sight of him. She had never had the opportunity to gaze upon him unabated and she took it now, loathe to wake him when he was so tired that he couldn’t stay awake even while she was fetched. An almost unbearable feeling of protective tenderness rose within her breast, and she longed to cradle him against her. The lines on his face were deeper, his chin had not seen a razor for a few days, and there was dust in his dark eyebrows—she thought he was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

  Careful not to move, she sat quietly for some time, watching him breathe as the boat gently rocked with the current. I will watch him thus for the rest of my life, she thought, and hugged the thought to herself, unable to believe her good fortune.

  He stirred, and the brown eyes opened and looked into hers.

  “Dorogon,” she said softly, trying to remember the word.

  With a sleepy smile, he reached to caress her face with his hand. “Dorogoy,” he corrected in a tender tone.

  She turned her head to kiss his palm. “Go back to sleep, if you wish. I do not mind.”

  “I have little time,” he said with regret. “But I wanted to see you again.” Stiffly, he rose to sit on the edge of the berth, and took her hands in his. “You are well?”

  “I am perfectly well.” She smiled at him from her position on the floor. “You must not worry about me—I look forward to staying with your sister.”

  He nodded. “Clements will be needed in Lisbon, but he will commission another to deliver you—a curé, who can be trusted completely.”

  “Can he deliver letters to you?”

  “There are others who will see to it.” It was all that he offered, and remembering Robbie’s disclosures about his organization, she asked no further questions. Dimitry kept his gaze focused on her hands in his, his head bent.

  “Tell me—whatever it is,” she said softly, watching him. “I promise I won’t have the vapors.”

  He lifted his head to meet her eyes. “I wrote to him.”

  There was no question as to whom he referred. She stared at him, speechless.

  He continued in an intent tone, “I wanted to assure him that we are honorably wed—that I did not seek to take an advantage—and that there is a deep affection on both sides. I remember how I felt when the pistol was held to you; I would not wish such a feeling on anyone.”

  “Oh—I see,” she replied, even though she didn’t see at all. I wonder if I will ever understand men, she thought, genuinely perplexed—or if I will ever understand the power of love; imagine his dilemma in contemplating marriage to me, but nonetheless he moved heaven and earth to accomplish it. His devotion has more than made up for all the lack of devotion I have ever experienced. “I love you.” She looked into his dear face, and meant it to the soles of her slippers.

  “Ya tebya lyublyu.” He kissed her palms, one after the other. “I have a letter for you to give to my sister.”

  But the kisses had started an entirely different train of thought, and she leaned forward because the loose dress did a very poor job of covering her breasts. “Do we have so little time?” she teased in a low voice.

  He put a hand on the nape of her neck and pulled her to him, resting his forehead against hers. “I am not so selfish—I am content to speak with you; to look upon you while I may.”

  She thought about this, fingering the button on his sleeve. “And if I insisted, what then? Would you draw your blade on me?”

  Now it was his turn to think about it. “No,” he decided, and lifted her chin to kiss her mouth.

  Twining her arms around his neck, she pushed him back and wriggled, allowing her dress to fall off her shoulders. “Shall I lock the door?”

  “He would dare not enter.”

  “I am not worried about the captain—Eugenie does not knock.”

  With a swift movement, he pulled her over so that he was now atop her, his mouth on her throat. “She will have to wait her turn, then.”

  Laughing, she punched his arm in mock outrage. “I thought you had so little time.”

  But he became serious, and paused to rest his cheek against hers. “There is indeed little time—I have never missed anyone so much in my life, and there is so much more to come.”

  It was nothing more than what she had thought a thousand times these past few days, but instead she stroked his hair and responded as she knew she must, “It cannot be helped, Dimitry. I would not change a single thing if it meant I was not married to you, and so I will accept whatever comes with a grateful heart.”

  He lifted his head and brushed his lips against her mouth, the moment of vulnerability over. “You are extraordinaire.”

  “I suppose that is true,” she teased, to match his changing mood. “Only ask the crowd at the British consulate in Cairo.”

  “So, you can make light of it, now.” He pressed his curved nose against her straight little one as he worked her gown down her body. “At the time, it was not so amusing.”

  “No, it was ridiculous; I am the last person anyone should confuse with a goddess.”

  With an impatient gesture, he lifted off her for a moment to draw his shirt over his head. “The goddess of fertility, perhaps—we shall see.”

  With a delighted giggle, she pulled him to her.

  Author’s Note

  Those familiar with the historical timeline will realize that Hattie should be a few years younger than she is. Historical accuracy has been sacrificed so that the story can include a romance.

  About the Author

  Anne Cleeland holds a degree in English from UCLA as well as a law degree from Pepperdine University and is a member of the California State Bar. She writes historical fiction set in the Regency period and contemporary mystery. A member of the Historical Novel Society, she lives on Balboa Island, California, and has four children. Find her on the web at www.annecleeland.com.