‘No, but I can join you.’ By God, he would go to that block with her and they would lie down together if need be. He did touch her then. Taking her hand, he raised her knuckles to his lips and kissed them.
‘Absolutely not,’ Dasha cried. ‘Your death on my hands is the last thing I want. You need to keep yourself safe. Be my advisor, if you must. But give yourself some distance. Ruslan, promise me, no one can ever guess...’ Her voice trailed off leaving the forbidden words unspoken. No one could ever guess they’d been lovers, that he carried her heart, that he would champion her still, after all she’d done. ‘Give me your word, Ruslan.’
To give her his word meant giving her up for the greater good. He was reluctant to do that, but he was also reluctant to begrudge her anything she desired. ‘Do you understand what this means?’ he asked solemnly.
‘Yes,’ she answered quietly and he knew from the tears glistening in her eyes that it was not a choice she made easily. Going forward meant the end of them as they were on the road. Ruslan stifled a wave of emotion. He’d not thought today would end this way. He should have known better. Stepan had warned him not to fall for her. For all his detachment he’d fallen anyway. He just hadn’t realised until now how far that would be.
He opened her hand and took a ring from his pocket, pressing it into her palm: the signet of the House of Pisarev, the one sign of his royalty. A pledge of fealty.
‘You can’t give me this.’ Dasha tried to give it back, but he curled her fingers about it.
‘Keep it as a reminder of my loyalty against times that come when you might question all those around you and feel beset by enemies on all sides.’ He paused, searching for the right words. Those times would come to her soon. ‘Keep it against tomorrow.’
Dasha nodded. ‘But not tonight. Tonight, we are still us.’
‘Yes, as much as we can be,’ Ruslan promised. Tomorrow everything would change. But for now, they would be the Archambeaults one last time.
Chapter Eighteen
It would have been their last night together whether she’d confessed her horrible secret or not. To have the taint of an affaire about them would weaken them both in the eyes of those they’d need to impress. But there was no denying that a certain sense of foreboding and darkness had fallen over them. The evening carried with it a bittersweet edge.
Ruslan was honest enough to admit to himself they were both still clinging to the shreds of the fantasy they’d conjured between them on the road. That fantasy had suffered damage today, between their unspoken accusations and her revelation. But to what end? Mending that rift could change nothing. Tonight was about capturing one final time who they’d been on the road and a consummation of who they might have been if circumstances had been different. Tomorrow, all of this was to be forgotten.
Tonight, Ruslan came to her chamber as a bridegroom might, dressed only in a borrowed banyan, and found her waiting like a bride, her hair brushed out and loose, clad in a nightgown of Irish linen. She sat by the fire, the flame outlining the shadowy curves of her body beneath. He smiled when he saw the gown. He’d suspected she’d bought it. She’d had it all this time and had not worn it. She’d waited for a night like tonight—a last night? Or had Dasha, too, hoped for a different sort of night when they might celebrate in truth?
He stopped at the small table and poured two glasses of wine. He offered her one and sat beside her on the rug. ‘Radost’moya.’
To my joy. She was that. No matter what happened. No matter who she was. She had returned him to a life of purpose, not because he was going home to Kuban, but because he’d found meaning in loving her. He twined his arm around hers and they drank from one another’s cup.
‘A most loving cup indeed.’ Ruslan kissed her and took the glasses, setting them aside. He stood briefly, capturing her gaze as he removed his banyan, letting her drink her fill of him and know his intentions. He meant to take her, here on the rug before the fire. He knelt on the rug, reaching for her. He felt her tremble in anticipation, as if they had never done this before and this were the first time. He gently tugged the ribbon loose at the neck of her gown, his hand slipped between the loose folds of fabric, tracing her breast. He watched the shadow of her nipple harden against the fabric in the firelight. He pushed the nightrail off her shoulders, revealing his bride inch by firelit inch, loving her slowly with his eyes, his hands, his mouth. He pulled her beneath him, his body positioned between her thighs, his phallus straining. She was ready for him, this bride of his. The scent of her arousal mixed with the lavender soap, heady and evocative.
He took her then in a steady thrust. She cried out, a sob of joy, of desire, and clung to him as if this were the last night of the world. Ruslan could not ignore reality any longer as he relentlessly pushed them towards completion, their bodies craving one final union. In the morning, the Dasha who’d slept beside him for weeks, who had discussed politics with him, argued policies with him, who sparked to his touch, who knew how to give unabashed pleasure, would be gone. In her place would be a queen, strong and beautiful, but restrained, unable to fully indulge herself for fear of consequences.
* * *
In the morning they dressed carefully in the impressive fruits of Guillaume’s labours. Ruslan donned a long Cossack tunic of bright blue fabric with a heavily embroidered placket at the collar, the loose dark trousers of the Kuban and tall, sturdy boots. Dasha solemnly tied a wide black sash about his waist, knotting it on the side with care.
Ruslan shoved his not-so-ceremonial dagger into the folds of his sash at the last and slipped another knife into his boot. He felt as if he were going to war rather than to board a ship. But one never knew and word would begin to spread ahead of them. Perhaps the Captain who had so graciously agreed to give Prince Pisarev passage to Ekaterinodar had already sent a message on to a relative in port about his important but mysterious cargo and speculation was running in advance up the Kuban River to the capital. If so, he needed to be prepared for whatever reception awaited them. A good diplomat always carried a dagger or two.
Dasha finished the knot and stepped back to survey her handiwork. ‘You look like a real Cossack prince.’
‘I am a real Cossack Prince.’ Ruslan laughed, trying to ease the strain of reality. They’d awakened tired, shortly after dawn. Neither had wanted to waste the night in sleep, but sleep had claimed them none the less towards morning. But now, Dasha’s fatigue only seemed to heighten the hopelessness between them. They’d made love one last time, a rather desperate coupling, Ruslan thought, a futile attempt to hold back the inevitable. Even as he’d taken her, she’d started to pull back behind the mask of her green eyes. There was no spark in them, they existed solely as protection now, a barrier between her and the world. He missed the green fire already.
‘You look quite fine as well,’ Ruslan complimented. Guillaume had outdone himself in finding garments suitable for royalty. Dasha wore the results: a bright blue-wool travelling gown that matched his tunic with embroidered cuffs and an expensive cloak to match, lined in the white fur of the Arctic fox, a most queenly garment indeed. But Ruslan had been happy to pay for the clothes, just as he’d been happy to invest funds in the right sort of Captain. He’d got what he’d paid for on both accounts. This was no time to be frugal. After Dasha’s disclosure, she had to go looking like a princess and that required all the trappings of royalty. Men could be dazzled by trappings. It might be that if he could dazzle them enough, they wouldn’t look too closely at her claim, or at their doubts.
‘Do I look fine, truly?’ Dasha plucked at her skirts and straightened the clean, white fichu of Flanders lace, the one he’d bought her in Arras, he noted. ‘Perhaps it is too bright? Perhaps I should have worn black?’ Nervously, her hand went to a place between her breasts where it played with something on a ribbon hidden in her bodice. His ring, tied about her neck with a ribbon from Arras, yet another lover’s trinkets.
He made no reference to the other items she wore. It was best to keep their thoughts on the business that lay ahead of them, to keep their minds occupied with moving forward instead of contemplating all the ‘might-have-beens’ they would leave behind in this room. Ruslan swung his cloak about his shoulders, a signal it was time to go. The Captain wanted to leave early. It would be a five-day journey by sea from Marseilles to Ekaterinodar and the mouth of the Kuban River. He opened the door for her. He dared not take her hand, not even one last time, the gesture far too intimate for a princess and her advisor.
Left behind, too, in this room would be all the familiarity, all the intimacy of the past weeks. There could be no more soft glances, no more quick touches, no more familiar possession of her body. His touches now must be relegated to only the most appropriate—a brief, guiding hand at her back or at her elbow to direct her attention or to navigate her through a crowd. Perhaps a stately kiss to her knuckles as he bowed to her on the throne.
He would make the most of those moments. He was her bodyguard now, and her advisor. They would have the secret intimacy of words left to them. Whenever they spoke of government policy, they would both remember other times and other places where those conversations had occurred, and that would have to suffice, as would the small gifts she wore, each one containing a memory.
‘Your Highness, it’s time to go.’ Ruslan met her eyes, a silent reminder that this had been her choice, although he’d given her others. If he’d been in her place, it would have been his choice, too. They had that in common. Duty first, even when it hurt.
* * *
Your Highness, it’s time to go.
With those words, Ruslan had ‘left’ her, becoming Prince Pisarev to her once more, as he had been in the beginning, a most able courtier doing his duty. Dasha stood at the rail of the ship, her gaze riveted on the fading shores of Marseilles, while her mind relived that awful moment at the door. She had seen the wall come down in his beautiful blue eyes at the very end when she’d passed by him.
How brave he’d been to wear his feelings on his sleeve until the very last minute. She had not been that brave. She’d thought it would hurt less to ‘leave’ him first. She’d pulled her emotions away from their lovemaking, trying to create detachment, trying to protect herself. She knew Ruslan had noted it, although he’d said nothing.
In the end, it hadn’t mattered. It had physically hurt to lose him. She’d stumbled in the hallway, putting out a hand to the wall to catch herself. But Ruslan was faster, he’d been there, with a hand at her elbow to steady her. Their eyes had met and for a moment she’d thought he would break, thought he’d say the familiar words, ‘Dasha, are you all right?’ But the moment passed, his touch effective but remote. It didn’t seem to stop her body from reacting, though. Her arm was hot where he’d steadied her, her mind a riot of sensations and memories of other touches, better touches.
Ruslan came to join her at the rail, a careful space between them, his shoulders straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his entire body alert. Alert to what? There was no need at sea. The Captain had been vetted, a Loyalist to his core, Guillaume had said with a hint of distaste. If the Captain questioned her own identity, he didn’t show it. His acceptance was a relief, but a small one at that. A man like the Captain would never have seen such a high-born woman as the Princess. He had nothing to test her authenticity against except Ruslan’s word. However, he had not questioned her right to the claim. Surely that was a good sign?
Of course he hadn’t, Dasha chided herself over her desperation to claim any sort of victory. Ruslan had paid the Captain handsomely for his acceptance of the facts. Ruslan was her capable knight, like the Ruslan of fairy tales. He managed everything beautifully, including farewell. His lovers at court must have appreciated how skilled he was in separation—all manners and politeness, making it easy for their relationship to re-establish more neutral ground. He’d given away no emotion, no sense of hurt this morning, unlike yesterday in the church when there’d been emotion aplenty. That scene in the church remained poignantly etched in her mind, not only because of the raw power behind it, but because it could very well be the last time she saw Ruslan, the real Ruslan, exposed and naked to her, every emotion etched in his eyes. That man had been neatly put away and replaced with the courtier.
Tears stung her face. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. The wind off the waves would do it for her. She fingered the ring beneath her dress. That was another image she’d carry with her always, of Ruslan pledging to be hers, curling her fingers around his ring. His ring was tangible proof of his true feelings, a talisman against the times that would come when she would doubt.
Did the Kubanian court ever see that side of him? The deep emotion, the deep loyalty that drove him, or was that only reserved for his close friends? She was not looking forward to court. She would be faced with her father’s accusers, others like Guillaume whom her father had wronged, people who would hold her accountable for the crimes of a family she couldn’t remember, or those who would want her to honour her father’s favours in exchange for their continued loyalty—favours she knew nothing about. She expected there would be some who would push that advantage if they could, if she proved vulnerable. There would be Ruslan’s lovers, too. She wanted to meet them even less.
Dasha cast a sidelong glance at his profile, the beautiful sweep of his jaw, the apples of his cheeks, the long, straight patrician nose, the wind wreaking havoc with those thick red-gold waves. The women would be glad to have him back. She had no right to expect Ruslan would be celibate. A lifetime of celibacy was not for him, nor did she wish it for him. He was not made to be a monk. And herself? She would inevitably marry and that, by its nature, would require a man in her bed. A man not Ruslan.
A lump formed in her throat and she looked away, directing her gaze out over the water. This had been her choice and she’d chosen poorly. She’d wrought this unhappiness for both of them and she would pay for it the rest of her life. Doubt flooded her. She’d had so many chances to walk away. She could have stayed in London as an émigrée, she could have disappeared into France with Ruslan as her husband and become wine makers in truth. She wondered if they would have been very good at it? But she’d doggedly chosen the responsible route—to be the Queen everyone saw in her, the Princess everyone told her she was, even when she didn’t quite believe it herself. A country needed her, justice needed her. There were wrongs to right, many of them done by her own family. In five days, that decision which had already been tested privately would be tested publicly. Once they made port at Ekaterinodar, she would officially be home. She had five days left to learn all that needed learning, to acquire enough memories to prove she was the Princess, five days left to remember again.
‘Your Highness, would you like to bring Maximus up on deck for a walk while I have cards set up in the saloon?’ Ruslan directed her away from the railing. He knew too well that if she stood there, she’d be wallowing in regrets the rest of the day. ‘Cards can be a nice distraction to the tedium of sea travel. The Captain has a chess set we might use, too,’ he offered, sending a delighted cabin boy scurrying for the puppy.
Maximus did lift her spirits. He was a rambunctious puppy who was eager to play.
* * *
They spent the greater part of their five days on deck playing tug with Max with a piece of old rope. The puppy made them laugh and, when he settled down to nap, they spent long afternoons in the saloon playing cards and chess, which she never won. When they were together like this, the activities and the puppy between them, she could almost pretend the old days were back, that they had not deserted one another. Deserted was too strong of a word. He had not deserted her. She
was by no means abandoned. He’d planned every hour of her days, been with her every hour of those days, so that she needn’t be alone, or be afraid, a reminder that they were in this together.
But it simply wasn’t the same and she wanted it to be. The days were tolerable, but the nights were not. Her bed was empty and she feared sleep even as she courted it. To sleep meant a chance, perhaps, to remember, but she was afraid to dream, afraid to cry out. Would Ruslan come to her if she did? She had not been afraid to sleep when he’d slept beside her. She had not dreamed most of the trip through France, her evening thoughts occupied by far more pleasant things than fire and swords, blood and mysterious women she couldn’t name. She had a strategy for waking herself: Maximus. The puppy slept beside her now, curled up in a ball as if he understood she needed him. He’d taught himself to lick her face when her sleep became agitated, which woke her. But the closer they drew to journey’s end, the harder it was to stave off the dream...
* * *
‘Dasha! Come!’
Her sword was out and they were close to the stairs; a few more steps and escape would be in her grasp. They were going to make it despite the flames and the smoke!
Then a man loomed before her, large and heavy, intent on evil, sword drawn. Instinctively, she backed up, but there was nowhere to retreat. Flames were behind her. She couldn’t go back.
She raised her weapon, parrying the first blow, but it nearly numbed her arm. This man was so much stronger. It was different than parrying for fun with Vasili and Grigori. She would have to act fast. Her strength wouldn’t last. That was what the boys had taught them; when outmatched, strike fast and hard because you won’t have second chances.
She took another blow, blocking it, noting how he left his left side unprotected. He wasn’t expecting a woman to attack. She took her blade and struck hard with everything she possessed, the blade burying itself into the man’s unprotected side, the impact sending a jolt up her arm.
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 17
