She let go the hilt, staggering back in shock, the world reeling, blackness hemming the edges of her vision. No, she couldn’t faint. She still had to get them out. It was hard to breathe. She stumbled. The smoke was too much.
She reached out to grab something stable and solid in her reeling world. There was blood on her hands. The man was dead. She fell, she screamed...
* * *
‘Dasha!’ She was surrounded by something warm and solid at last, but she clawed at it, her mind not fully transitioned from dream state to waking. Her voice was a litany of sobs and panicked gasps. ‘Dasha!’ The voice came again, this time firm and commanding. The hands that held her gave her a little shake. ‘Dasha, wake up, you’re safe.’
Ruslan. He’d come. The real Ruslan had come. He was dressed in his borrowed banyan. He’d come straight from his bed next door and he’d called her by name. She held up her shaking hands, her throat working hard to get the important words out while Maximus scrambled on to her bunk. ‘I killed a man. With my sword. A man on the landing.’ She could only manage phrases. There was something else about the dream that had seemed odd, different, this time, but she couldn’t recall it. Perhaps it was too insignificant compared to the enormity of this knowledge.
Ruslan covered her trembling hands with his. ‘I know. Varvakis told me he expected that was what happened before he arrived.’
Dasha stared at him, uncomprehending at first. ‘You knew? Varvakis knew? Everyone knew? Except me?’
‘Captain Varvakis felt it was unnecessary to tell you. You had suffered so much trauma already, it seemed cruel to subject you to more.’ Ruslan held her eyes with his, perhaps wanting to calm her with his gaze. ‘Do not blame him alone. I questioned the decision, but I followed it. It is my fault, too. I could have told you. I didn’t because I didn’t want your dreams influenced by any more manufactured memories than it already was. You’d already inserted your brothers’ names into the dream whether through real memory recovery or through our lessons. We had no way of knowing.’
Dasha was not sure she wanted to be calm, but she did want to be clear and logical. She drew a deep breath. ‘No, I don’t blame you. You were protecting me, protecting the dream, the only link we have to what really happened that night.’ But when she saw Varvakis again, she would discuss this with him at length. More important at the moment was the implication of his omission. She let Ruslan’s touch steady her, let his strength buoy her own flagging resources before she spoke. ‘If Varvakis omitted this, what else did he leave out?’
‘Don’t, Dasha. Nothing can come of doubting now,’ Ruslan warned, gathering her to him. ‘Even if Varvakis left something more out, it’s too late to change course. We are already committed.’ Something in his tone caused her to look at him, noting for the first time he wore trousers beneath the banyan. He’d not risen from sleep at her cry. He’d already been awake.
‘The Captain has received word that a delegation will meet us in Ekaterinodar and have arranged for us to take a barge upriver to the capital. The messenger was rowed out in a dinghy just an hour ago when we set down anchor. I have responded. I told them Her Royal Highness appreciates the courtesy and will gladly join them at nine o’clock after she has broken her fast.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘Nearly six.’ Ruslan disengaged her hands and rose from the bunk, all serious advisor now. ‘We have three hours to review.’
Chapter Nineteen
So this was where the first test would take place, at the harbour of Ekaterinodar, the contested sea entrance to Kuban. Ruslan stepped down from the gangplank and offered his gloved hand to Dasha, his eyes surveying the port, taking in the busy docks, the imposing fortifications with their cannons. An unwanted fleet would struggle to make berth here in one piece. The port had been a gift to the Kubanian Cossacks from Catherine the Great, a gift that needed defending from the Ottomans. In the past fifty years the Cossacks had successfully defended the port for Mother Russia. How fitting that this was where the delegates had chosen to meet them. Ruslan understood their message perfectly by selecting this spot, the very first point of contact with Kuban. No one got into Kuban without permission.
Ruslan offered Dasha his arm. She laid hers atop it with ceremonial precision. The gesture hardly qualified as a touch and yet he could feel her fingers tremble in their fur-lined gloves. But her eyes were steady, her face calm, her posture regal as if not a bone in her body doubted her right to claim her identity. Good. They would need that confidence.
The delegation of two waited at the end of the pier. They would not be easy to convince, but they would not be the most difficult Dasha would face. They were the men Varvakis had mentioned. The Captain had told the truth in that regard. Now, he studied each man in turn as he and Dasha made the walk. He’d briefed Dasha over breakfast and now he ran through the few facts he had to focus his mind and review his strategy.
Ivan Serebrov, the bulky bear of a man on the right, was the father of a schoolmate, a very conservative family who had served the Tsar for long years. Serebrov was definitely a Loyalist. Ruslan would be quick to remind Serebrov of his friendship with the man’s son. Ruslan was more worried about his reception with Serebrov than he was about Dasha’s. They would be sympathetic to her even if they weren’t sympathetic to him. His gaze drifted to Count Anatoly Ryabkin, the Rebel leader. That was an unfortunate development. There was bad blood between him and the Count, who had done nothing to use his influence when Ruslan had asked him to intervene on his father’s behalf.
Anatoly Ryabkin was a nobleman with radical ideas. Ruslan was not surprised to see him coming to the fore in the new order, but Ruslan did not trust his motives. He would be difficult to manage, a man loyal to no one but himself. Ryabkin would benefit more from being a sceptic over Dasha’s return than in accepting it. Ruslan would need to neutralise him quickly.
At the end of the pier, Ruslan made a formal bow. ‘Allow me to present Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova.’
Serebrov came forward first, bending over Dasha’s gloved hand with a kiss to her knuckles. ‘Your Highness, my condolences on your family. What a miracle it is to find you alive. Your father’s leadership is missed.’
‘It is not.’ A look of disgust crossed Anatoly Ryabkin’s handsome face. ‘Are we going to stand out here in the cold, kowtowing to a woman just because she claims to be a resurrected princess? The family, the whole, entire damn family was taken out and shot for exactly this reason, in front of witnesses, so there would be no question of hereditary leadership.’
Ruslan felt Dasha freeze, stunned by the level of Ryabkin’s vituperative invective. She had known, of course, that she would face dislike. Ruslan’s hand went to the dagger beneath his cloak. ‘Count, you go too far. The Princess has survived and has journeyed far to restore order to her country, and to forgive those who have wronged her family, even as she seeks to redress wrongs done by her family.’ Ruslan eyed Serebrov, watching the man’s response. Would the idea of redressing past wrongs resonate with him? Ruslan needed an ally. That ally would not be Ryabkin.
Ryabkin snorted in disbelief, making no attempt to hide his distaste. ‘Are you her stooge, then, Pisarev? She sends you to beg on her behalf? You’ve become the official royal groveller? How did you manage that? Did you seduce her, too, like all the other women at court? Or are you simply that desperate to reclaim position at court?’
Ruslan stiffened. He felt Dasha’s eyes on him, wondering at the remark. If not for her, he’d have no hesitation calling Ryabkin out. But if not for her, he wouldn’t be here to face the Count’s slander.
Serebrov had the good sense to look scandalised by Ryabkin’s outburst. Serebrov made a gesture with his hand towards a warehouse. ‘There is a samovar with hot tea and a room ready for us. If you would follow me?’
He led them to a hastily converted room. A scarred work table sat in the centre surrounded by m
ismatched chairs. The setting was at odds with the finely dressed lords and Dasha’s rich cape. Ruslan pulled out a chair for her at the head of the table and took up a spot at her right shoulder, forcing one of the other men to serve the tea. He’d be damned if Dasha was going to play the subordinate and wait on them.
‘I must apologise for the Count,’ Serebrov began, once everyone had tea. ‘I hope you recognise not all of us are so inclined to poor manners.’ Serebrov shot the Count a censorious look. ‘However, I will not ignore his sentiment as irrelevant. If I may put it more delicately, the family was killed. There were no survivors and then two days ago we received word that the Princess was arriving from Marseilles on a ship. You can imagine our surprise. The counsel that now sits in Kuban met hastily and called for volunteers to ascertain the possibility the Princess was still alive.’
The room was cold. Ruslan could see Serebrov’s breath as he spoke. He was wary, too, careful with his loyalties as he waited to see how power would be determined in this new world. The man was a reactionary, not a revolutionary. He might call himself a Loyalist, but there was some irony in that title. When it came to decision time, Serebrov, like Ryabkin, would look out for himself. All eyes were on Ruslan, waiting for the official response. But Ruslan remained silent, letting Dasha speak. The sooner they accepted her authority, the better.
Dasha nodded her head. ‘I understand your dispositions entirely, gentlemen. This is a most unusual situation.’ She was calm, confident. ‘I would be happy to recount the events of that night for you as proof that I did indeed escape. I would also be glad to answer any questions you might have.’
Ruslan’s heart soared with pride at her command of the situation. They’d rehearsed the telling of the tale, keeping the tale succinct but truthful. There was no need to lie. Neither was there any need to say anything that would give the impression of loose ends. This would be a tale she’d have to tell over and over again. It was important all audiences had the same version. ‘Captain Varvakis can verify my story. He was the man who caught me on the stairs and carried me to safety,’ Dasha concluded. She gave no sign of the emotional toll it took to tell the story. It was not an easy one to share, knowing how it ended: with a man dead by her own hand, her family destroyed and the reality that she would have been destroyed, too, on Ryabkin’s orders that night, if Varvakis had not been there.
The mention of Varvakis got a reaction from Serebrov. ‘Where is the Captain now? Did he not accompany you from London?’
Ruslan answered. ‘He is en route with a British delegation who support the Princess. The Princess and I chose to come ahead and prepare the way for their arrival. I expect them in a few weeks.’
Serebrov sneered at the mention of the British. ‘What do we want with the English? I hope you haven’t sent us a Trojan horse,’ he accused Ruslan, ‘invading us at our most vulnerable.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten you favour more liberal policies like your father.’
‘I favour what is good for the country and that is the avoidance of civil war,’ Ruslan replied sharply.
‘And I suppose you think putting a Tukhachevsken back on the throne is in our best interests?’ Ryabkin sneered. ‘Perhaps that’s what is good for you.’ His eyes drifted over Dasha in an insulting leer. ‘I grow ever more curious as to what she has promised you, Prince Pisarev, to put her on the throne. A place in her bed? A place in her council? Both? Perhaps she promises you the position of consort.’ He looked at Dasha, his eyes lethal. ‘You do know a lie of this magnitude is tantamount to treason.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Dasha answered evenly, forcing him to name his accusation.
Ryabkin was not shy. ‘That you are not the Princess, but an imposter set up by the Loyalists to restore their power.’ A murmur circulated about the table.
‘It is no lie.’ Dasha was cool, her voice raised slightly, but from his vantage point, Ruslan could see the tight clench of her hands in her lap, hidden beneath the table.
Ryabkin was not impressed. He overrode her, ignoring her response. ‘How convenient the Princess Dasha has not been seen for years in public. Anyone might claim to be her. Anyone might tell a story of rescue. Perhaps she’s promised Captain Varvakis something, too, for his collusion.’
Ruslan did not care for the insinuation that Dasha would play the whore not only for one man but for two. But he could not react without looking jealous or without looking like the sort of man Ryabkin accused him of being. He fixed Ryabkin with a stare of steel and waited for his opportunity. ‘She has told her story. Varvakis tells the same tale.’ He nodded towards Ryabkin. ‘You make good points, so good in fact that one wonders why she would risk faking such a thing. Why indeed would anyone seek the throne of a volatile little principality where they risk death simply by making a claim? It seems there’s little to gain and much to lose.’
‘Perhaps another test then, Your Highness.’ Ryabkin made a lightning-quick move for Dasha’s arm, but Ruslan was faster. His not-so-ceremonial dagger pinned the man’s coat sleeve to the table.
‘Keep your hands to yourself, Count,’ Ruslan said coolly. ‘The Princess has shown you every courtesy from meeting with you in this dingy room, which is entirely beneath her station, to tolerating your slurs upon her character.’ Ruslan pulled his knife out of the fabric. ‘If you continue, I will be more than pleased to oblige you on the field of honour.’ Sometimes there was only one way to handle men like the Count and it wasn’t always the most diplomatic. Still, it established a certain tone. It was best they all knew where he stood on the issue of Dasha from the start.
Ryabkin rubbed the rent left in his sleeve, his gaze malevolent. ‘Does the Princess have something to hide like the lack of a scar on her wrist?’
Dasha pulled back her sleeve and turned her arm over to reveal the soft side of her wrist and the half-moon scar. ‘That should satisfy, Count. I acquired this scar the summer I turned sixteen.’
Serebrov gloated his approval. ‘Cool under fire, that’s Tsar Peter’s daughter, all right.’ He stood. ‘I think she has admirably passed any test we might give her at present. I suggest we escort her upriver to the capital and see what the council makes of her. There’s not much more we can do here.’
Ryabkin rose begrudgingly, momentarily defeated. ‘This is not approval, Princess. The Council might decide they don’t want a monarch on the throne, or they might decide they don’t want a Tukhachevsken on the throne, no matter how pretty.’
Despite the Count’s words, however, it was still a victory and Ruslan would take it. They’d been granted entrance and escort to the capital. He didn’t fool himself. This was where the real testing would begin, where Dasha would have to know more than the names of her brothers and how she got a scar on her wrist. It wouldn’t simply be enough to prove she was the Princess. She would have to persuade them her ideas for Kuban were in both parties’ interests. After today, Ruslan saw just how difficult that would be. Men like Serebrov would want her for her father’s sake, but not her ideas. Men like the Count would want her ideas, but not her.
He could smooth the way for her, but Ruslan would have his work cut out for him. Perhaps the work would help fill the emptiness inside of him. It had been a special sort of torture to watch her endure Ryabkin’s insults today and do nothing near what the bastard deserved. Ryabkin had tried to break her and she’d resisted. She’d been ready for him, intellectually, emotionally. Ruslan had been proud of her, even if he ached for her. He would have to get used to the hurting. Today, she had moved out of reach for good. The Count’s insinuations made any non-political association Ruslan might pursue with Dasha beyond the pale of possibility. It made Ruslan wonder what Ryabkin hoped to gain for himself with such a show of force. Ryabkin would bear watching.
* * *
Dasha shut the door to the library behind her. It was small but well furnished, as was most of Ryabkin’s town house where everyone w
as staying. She would have preferred to stay anywhere else, but there had been no refusing without looking rude and suspicious. She leaned her forehead against the frame and closed her eyes, breathing in and breathing out. It was only for one night. Tomorrow, they would all sail up the Kuban River on a barge to the capital. And at least she was alone for the moment.
It was a condition she welcomed and hated. She’d spent the day surrounded by men for whom she had to perform, for whom she had to be the Princess. Every movement, every word scrutinised. It was exhausting to always be on her guard. But being alone also meant she was without Ruslan. He’d stood by her side all day, stoic and watchful. He’d nearly skewered more than the Count’s sleeve when Ryabkin had grabbed for her. But in other ways, he’d left her, as he’d promised, and she felt the distance keenly. He’d not met her eyes. He’d not touched her beyond what was required. He’d not made conversation with her.
She would have liked nothing more than to be in bed with him, to feel the reassuring strength of his body against hers, to talk the day over with him. Instead, he was housed in a chamber far from hers—a deliberate move, she thought, on Count Ryabkin’s part. There was bad history there, although Ruslan had never said anything about it. Watching them today, she’d felt like someone who’d come late to a play, the second act already underway.
Dasha moved to the fireplace and drew a chair close to it, letting the heat of the flames warm her. She’d best get used to being alone. Ruslan was beyond her now by her own choice. She’d been prepared to let him go. She’d not been prepared for the hollowness the decision left inside, as if nothing else mattered but finding her way back to him. She closed her eyes, reaching into her mind for memories of him, of his touch...
The opening of the door jolted her awake. She must have drifted off. She turned towards the sound, startled to have her sanctuary invaded. She was even more startled to see who it was. Count Ryabkin stood at the door, still fully dressed for evening. There was the faint smell of cold weather and cigar smoke about him. He’d been out sampling the delights of Ekaterinodar.
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 18
