Ruslan gave her an exaggerated bow, trying for levity as he sent her upstairs. ‘My dear, tonight, I introduce you to society. You have much to do.’ As did he. There were coachmen and outriders to brief for tonight’s excursion across Mayfair to Lord Bradford-Piles’s residence. Ruslan didn’t expect trouble tonight. It was too soon. Trouble would start tomorrow once news of her presence made the rounds. But it was always best to be prepared. His eyes followed her up the gentle curve of the staircase, stopping her halfway. ‘Might I suggest the gunmetal grey for tonight?’ Sombre, but elegant and expensive, it would show well next to Canning’s heiress wife. He, too, would take care to look his best. Tonight, he had to go looking like a king, or, in his case, like a prince.
* * *
At half past seven, Dasha stood at the top of the stairs, fingering the necklace Ruslan had sent up a half-hour earlier, a delicate silver heart on a thin chain that lay just at the base of her neck. Below her, Ruslan waited, smiling up at her expectantly as she made her descent, head up, eyes forward, her skirts discreetly in one hand. It was the way a princess walked, all confidence and delicate purpose.
If she was a princess, then he was undoubtedly a prince. The lean athleticism of his physique was ideal for the current fashions. Tonight, he wore well-tailored evening clothes in the darkest, deepest of blacks cut in the latest style: a single-breasted tailcoat worn open to show off the silk dove-grey waistcoat embroidered in turquoise swirls and the crisp white shirt beneath, topped off with a black stock. His breeches finished at the knee, giving way to white stockings and black pumps that showed off a set of well-shaped calves to muscled perfection. He would take her breath away if she could afford the luxury of such a thing. He would take more than her breath, truth be told. He was handsome, commanding, well-mannered, forceful and yet respectful of others’ perspectives. He was all things a prince should be; all things a man should be, title or not.
She reached the bottom of the steps and he took her gloved hand in his, raising it to his lips. ‘Do I pass?’ she asked, her free hand going idly once more to the necklace at her throat.
‘Absolutely. You look stunning. Canning will be taken with you on looks alone,’ Ruslan assured her, tucking her hand through his arm. ‘Our carriage awaits.’ As did her instruction on Canning’s politics. The Foreign Secretary was a Tory, but his beliefs led him to steer clear of conservative attempts throughout Europe to quell the more liberal movements towards nationalism. ‘I think that makes him conducive to Kuban’s plight,’ Ruslan explained. ‘The new Kuban will be a place that seeks to shake off the old ideals of the past. He will like that.’
But Dasha wasn’t thinking about constitutional monarchies. She was thinking: this is what it would be like if Ruslan was hers, always. There would be countless evenings like this one where they’d discuss politics beforehand and debrief their opinions afterwards. The thought of them driving out together in Kuban, on their way to meet with other nobles, or inviting people to the palace, standing together at the grand staircase to greet guests, was sudden and forbidden. Perhaps the latter accounted for the suddenness of the former, an ambush of a thought if ever there was one. She had no business thinking of him like that simply because he was being kind to her in a time of tragedy.
Oh, but he’d been more than kind. He’d kissed her on two occasions. She did not have to possess a large amount of worldly experience to know a man did not kiss like that simply to be kind. He’d been affected, too, and now it was up to them both to put sensibility before sense. There was a nation at stake, to say nothing of her own future—a future that she’d already begun to direct. By choosing her declaration tonight, she’d cut herself off from certain paths and risks, to embrace other paths, other risks. Her attraction to Ruslan was one of those risks.
‘I see the necklace met with approval.’ Ruslan had finished his dissertation on Canning’s politics.
‘Yes.’ She smiled, her fingers rubbing the silver heart. ‘You were kind to send it to me.’ He’d not come himself, a gesture that would have been far too intimate, far too like a husband visiting a wife before an evening out. Perhaps he’d been alert to that connotation as well and had avoided it on purpose.
The carriage rolled to a halt and Ruslan peered out the window. ‘We are here. Allow me to assist you.’ He was out of the carriage first, looking around before handing her out. It was more than the thoughtfulness of a gentleman, she realised. It was the protection of a bodyguard, a role he would quietly play in the guise of her escort as long as she remained in London.
‘Surely there will be no trouble tonight,’ Dasha said, as much to reassure herself as him. The idea that there could be trouble recast her perspective on the walk to the Bradford-Pileses’ front door. The distance between the kerb and the door seemed longer. She shook her head. She would not give in to paranoia. If she did, she’d end up hiding away, afraid to walk past the windows.
At the top of the steps, she drew a deep breath as they were shown in and announced. ‘His Highness, Prince Ruslan Pisarev, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova of Kuban.’ A shiver ran through her. Dasha let herself revel in the thrill, the luxury of the announcement, as the room curtsied and bowed to her, to them. But there was no mistaking how very real everything had just become. She’d officially put on the mantle of Kuban just as certainly as if she’d put on the crown itself. There could be no going back, no declining the identity she’d just assumed.
Ruslan’s hand was warm and encouraging at her back, guiding her directly to where their host and the Foreign Secretary stood at the fireplace mantel. ‘Allow me to present Princess Tukhachevskenova.’
So began her audition for acceptance. The polite scrutiny of her first dinner among the other Russians of rank in town seemed positively tame compared to the scrutiny she now received. It came in the polite form of questions, of course. No one gave the least outward appearance of being hostile or unaccepting. Why would they? They had no cause for not believing she was who she said she was. It crossed her mind during the beef course, when she’d told the story of her escape twice, how easy it would be to lie to them, to put a well-trained imposter in their midst. It was incredibly cynical of her to think such a thing. She reached for her wine glass and sipped.
‘What do you plan to do in London, Your Highness?’ The question of plans came at last from Lord Bradford-Piles.
‘I mean to wait until it is safe to return to Kuban and then help my country to modernise in their practices and laws. It is time for Kuban to join the nineteenth century.’
‘A very noble endeavour, Your Highness.’ Lord Bradford-Piles inclined his head, but Dasha detected a slightly patronising tone. She opened her mouth to address it and felt the press of Ruslan’s foot beneath the table. Now was not the time to challenge their host.
Lady Bradford-Piles rose, signalling for the ladies to join her. Dasha rose with them, although reluctantly. She’d done her part, but the play was not over. The men would discuss her when she left. The rest of the evening’s outcome was up to Ruslan. He caught her eye and gave her an encouraging nod, another glimmer of what life could be like with him, the two of them sharing the delicate balance of duty. She only needed to be patient. She had every confidence Ruslan would tell her what transpired over port once they were in the carriage on their way home. These were dangerous domestic imaginings, indeed, when they had her voluntarily putting her fate in the hands of another.
* * *
That did not make them untrue. With an uncanny accuracy that paralleled her fantasy, Ruslan unburdened himself in the carriage as soon as it left the kerb. ‘You did well tonight. Canning was impressed, as were the others, and where Canning leads, people will follow. He’s a man who will make Prime Minister one day soon, unless I miss my guess.’
Then Canning would be Prime Minister, Dasha thought. She didn’t think Ruslan ever missed his mark. He’d been right about the invitations today
and he’d been right about tonight. She had been ready enough and Canning had not pressed her about the issues she’d worried about most. On a darker note, if Ruslan had been right about tonight, perhaps he was also right about other things like assassins and dangers she’d rather not think about.
‘Will they help us?’ she asked, eager to turn her mind to brighter topics.
‘They may. They’ll want something in return, though,’ Ruslan warned. ‘It would be prudent to think about what Kuban is prepared to offer Britain.’ Her thoughts exactly.
‘We make a good team, you and I.’ Dasha smiled in the dark of the carriage.
‘You make a good princess,’ Ruslan clarified. Dasha’s smile faded. She’d been caught up in the euphoria of success and hoped for more, some acknowledgement of their togetherness, but that was not to be. She might be foolish in that regard, but Ruslan was not. Unfortunately. For better or for worse, she was the Princess now. They would both do well to remember it.
* * *
That night she had the dream, only different. The sequence started earlier than it usually did. She was in a room, there were voices, two of them, hushed and hurried in argument...
‘We will not survive the window. The drop is too far. If it doesn’t kill us, we’ll surely break something and be unable to walk.’
‘The hall is already on fire.’ It was the other voice, a young woman’s voice, full of fear.
‘If we can make the servants’ stairs undetected, we have a clear path out of the house. The smoke will be our shield and we have our swords.’
‘We are not soldiers. We’ve only ever used them in play.’ The room was dark, she wished she could see the other person. In the dream she gripped the other woman’s wrist. ‘Come, I will go first.’ She gave an experimental swipe with the sword, the blade heavy in her hand. It was true, they were not soldiers. Vasili and Grigori had taught them basics for fun one summer when the boys were bored. She remembered it now, how to parry a stroke, how to block and how to strike. If the strength of her arm held, she might make an adequate defence if it came to that.
She eased open the door, then shut it quickly again against smoke and the sound of gunfire. There was the hysterical scream of a woman, another shot and then eerie silence broken by shouts. They had to go now or it would be too late.
They stepped out into the hall. Her sword was raised in readiness, careful to use her body to block the woman behind her, to protect her. They moved fast through the smoke. They were nearly to the hall door when the cry went up.
‘There they are!’
She turned and stood her ground, aware that flames guarded her back. There was nowhere to go but forward, but through whoever stood in their way. She raised her blade. Please, Lord, let me be enough, she prayed. She would win through or die.
Chapter Ten
The scream woke Ruslan. Dasha! A year of dealing with Illarion’s nightmares propelled him out of bed without thought, his hand automatically reaching for the banyan at the end of his bed as he sprinted down the hall. He threw open the door to her room. Dasha sat rigidly upright in bed, her hands groping frantically for something unseen in the sheets, Maximus yipping frantically.
‘Dasha, wake up!’ Ruslan raced to the bed, grabbing her hands. They were ice-cold and her face was chalk. He’d never seen such thorough terror. Her eyes flew open, for a moment unseeing. Then she recognised him and collapsed against him with a sob. He took her in, rocking her like a small child as he murmured reassurances. ‘I’m here, it’s all right now.’ He patted the bed, signalling for the frantic, loyal Maximus who wanted to comfort his mistress. The little puppy leapt up and snuggled against her.
‘Was it the dream again?’ he asked softly when her breathing had steadied, her arm curled around the pup.
She nodded and drew back to face him. Her colour had returned and she was calmer, but the struggle of the dream had left its mark in the tousled hair and haunted eyes that held his. ‘There was more this time. It was like the dream started in an earlier place, a previous scene. I was in a room with another woman. We were debating the window or the door.’
Ruslan listened intently to her recollect the dream, holding his questions, knowing how important it was for her to recount it before the dream faded, before the dream could become confused. ‘This time, I called the brothers by name and this time there was an actual fight. I raised my sword and swung,’ Dasha sighed. ‘Then I woke up. I wish I could have stayed in the dream longer, as awful as it was, it might have shown me more.’ She looked down and paused, her hair falling forward over her face.
Instinctively, Ruslan reached out to gently push it back, tucking it over one ear. ‘What is it?’ he prompted. She wanted to say more. He sensed it.
‘Nothing, just foolishness, old wives’ tales.’
Dasha shrugged and he urged her to go on. ‘Nothing is too foolish. Tell me, whatever it is.’
‘Some people say that we wake up from dreams only when we die in them.’ She looked up at him at last, a hint of challenge in her eyes, challenge to admit that her conjecture was indeed childish.
‘That may be,’ Ruslan said neutrally. ‘Do you think you die in your dream? That you are killed by your opponent?’ That would be interesting, especially since they’d all been operating under the premise that this particular dream wasn’t so much a dream as it was a recollection of real events. ‘Perhaps it is just that you are knocked unconscious. That battle may be where you lost your memory. Perhaps you hit your head? The Captain did say you were unconscious when he reached you and that he saw you fighting with someone. He saw you go down.’
Dasha let out a breath, nodding in agreement. Her hands clenched inside his, hopeful. ‘Do you think that’s because I am remembering more?’
It was hard to deny the eagerness in her eyes, but Ruslan would not lie to her, not even for her peace of mind. ‘Perhaps, but it could also be because you’ve learned their names.’ In other words, the memory addition might not be organic, but merely a product of their long hours of study and learning. He probed for a little more, something unique, something untaught. ‘The other woman in the room? Do you have any idea who she might have been?’ Ruslan asked.
Dasha shook her head. ‘No, the room is dark in the dream. The other woman sounds young and she feels young when I grab her wrist, as though she might be my age.’ Dasha pondered the thought, her gaze retreating inward for a moment. ‘Her wrist, Ruslan. It felt like it had a scar on it. Feel this.’ She pushed up the sleeve of her nightrail and held out her own wrist for him to touch. Did she not understand how much torture that was? To touch her?
He took her wrist, feeling the strong pulse beneath the skin, the delicate bones of her arm as his thumb skimmed the skin. His thumb paused over the slight roughness of a scar. He looked down, searching for the tiny white line. ‘You’ve a scar here.’ He smiled.
‘So did the woman in the room. When I grabbed her wrist, I could feel it. I wonder if that means anything?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ruslan started to rise from the bed. It was time to distance himself from her. She was a beautiful temptation all fresh come from sleep and he was not in a resisting mood. He was in a taking mood, a protecting mood. He wanted to wrap her in his arms as if his embrace could hold her nightmare at bay.
She reached for his hand, pulling him back down. ‘Don’t go.’ The terror was back in her eyes. ‘Stay? Just a little longer?’
It was his cue to leave immediately, but instead he found himself sitting against the headboard of her bed, pillows behind him and Dasha tucked against his side, her head lodged in the notch of his shoulder, her body curved against him, feminine and warm. He should have locked the door. This was a damned compromising situation should anyone walk in, but it was too late now to get up. Too late to leave. Too late for a lot of things except to brazen it all out.
Ruslan smiled to himself, looking
down at Dasha and the pup. Brazening it out made it sound like a hardship to endure. It was hardly that. This was right where he wanted to be, propriety be damned. He was here not only because he stood ready to serve her and to protect her, but simply because he wanted to be. He rather thought he’d want to be beside her no matter who she was and that led to some very complicated feelings indeed. Feelings, Stepan would argue, which were mixed up with the role he was cast in as bodyguard and expert advisor. How could he possibly separate the two spheres and accurately analyse those feelings with any honesty? He had to agree with that hypothesis. How could he feel such a thing, so deeply for another, in such a short period of time? He was a logical man, a calculating man, who understood every situation carried with it multiple nuances. The idea of falling in love at first sight simply didn’t resonate with him. It was not a possibility, no matter how much Illarion the poet disagreed with him.
There was a science to attraction just as there was a science for nearly everything in this world, a systemic understanding of how things worked. Attraction that lasted was based on similarities of personal experience and attributes. Physical attraction was instant and immediate, but it did not always last.
This visceral reaction to her touch, the way her gaze sent a bolt of white-hot desire through him whenever she looked his way, it would pass. Right now, she was new and exciting, she’d brought purpose to his days and she needed him. History proved a beautiful woman in distress was a potent aphrodisiac for many a man. It had also been the downfall of many a man. Women were not as helpless as men liked to believe. History had proven that, too. Even without history, Dasha had proven that. Dasha was strong. He’d seen her master that room tonight with confidence. Perhaps it was that strength that made her so hard to resist. The support of another was the very last thing she’d ever admit to. Her very request showed just how much she’d needed it. Dasha sighed in her sleep and stirred against him, Maximus in her arms. It was going to be a long night. If he was to survive it, he needed to redirect his thoughts. There were certainly plenty of them that deserved his attention, starting with, who was the woman in the room in Dasha’s dream? That was the very first thing he’d discuss with Varvakis in the morning. Ruslan yawned, struggling to keep his eyes open. He would have to go soon. Just a few minutes more...
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 9
