Dasha sat up and dared to call out. ‘Ruslan?’ That set the sound of feet in motion. The bed curtains drew back, daylight revealing Ruslan’s face, clean-shaven now, but far more grim. Something had happened. ‘Another evil pronouncement from Ryabkin?’ Dasha smiled, although the Count’s announcements were no laughing matter.
Ruslan shook his head. ‘I’ve just received word.’ Instinctively, she reached for his hand, clutching it tight. ‘Grigoriev has turned back. There was trouble in Germany and they were waylaid after difficulty with a band of brigands. They could not resupply quickly enough to beat the snows. Grigoriev feared if they didn’t turn back, they wouldn’t beat the winter storms on the Channel either.’
‘Difficulty with brigands?’ It was hard to imagine General Vasiliev and his men overcome by common highwaymen, few as they were—Vasiliev wasn’t bringing an army with him, just a small group of military observers—they were still trained professionals, and there were Grigoriev’s men as well.
She watched Ruslan’s throat work as he swallowed. ‘It was an ambush at night. The men were disoriented, according to Grigoriev’s report.’ He hesitated and her pulse leapt in fear of more bad news. ‘Dasha, Captain Varvakis was killed.’
A cry of dismay escaped her. ‘No!’ Not Varvakis, her last link to the night she should have died. He was the one person the British delegation couldn’t afford to lose. He could collaborate her story. He could remember for her what she didn’t remember herself. Now he was gone.
Ruslan knelt before her, taking her hands, his eyes steady. ‘Dasha, I need you to be strong. You’ve done well without Varvakis this long, you will be fine without him. Serebrov believes you. He will not publicly denounce you and the Moderates want you on the throne, they will not scrutinise you too closely for fear of losing their own chances.’
It took her a moment to focus on his words. In hindsight, she wished she hadn’t. He was not giving her reassurance. He was bracing her for more. Ruslan took a note from his jacket pocket. ‘This came with Grigoriev’s report. It’s meant for you, I think. If I had known, I would not have broken the seal.’
Dasha scanned the note and then re-read it in disbelief. ‘Varvakis’s last testimony?’
‘Grigoriev was with him at the end. We can trust Grigoriev wrote down the truth.’
She gave her attention to the note again, reading each word carefully. She raised her head slowly to meet Ruslan’s patient gaze. ‘Dear God, there was a second woman on the landing.’ Just as there had been in her dream. But it was the worst news possible on the worst day possible when her very vindication hung in the balance. She breathed the damning verdict in surreal disbelief. ‘Varvakis lied.’
All the doubt she’d held at bay for months came flooding back. Dasha wanted to weep, wanted to scream. Would the nightmare never end? If only she could remember. If only Varvakis were alive. If only Varvakis hadn’t lied. So much now hung on his tiny omission. Had he rescued the wrong woman? Was she the Princess? Was the other woman the Princess? Had Dasha even been on the landing? ‘Why did he do it? Why did he lie?’ She was angry now. The final bulwark of her foundations had been kicked out from under her. She had counted on that singular piece of information for so much. Now her world was upside down. Now, nothing was as she’d believed it to be just hours ago.
Ruslan’s answer was quiet. ‘I think you know.’
She did know. Varvakis had done it for the Moderates, for their grab at power. She was a vital key in achieving their agenda, a convenient link to both the past and the future. She simply didn’t want to accept it. She let numbness take her as she made the next necessary leap of logic. If Varvakis had used her, then who was to say Ruslan had not done the same, only he’d done it so much more convincingly. All the peace she’d fallen asleep to, all the security she’d felt in Ruslan’s bed, evaporated. She’d been a fool.
‘What Ryabkin said about you, it’s true, isn’t it? You seduced women to change their husband’s minds. You used sex for leverage.’
‘You can’t be thinking that’s what I’ve done here. Dasha, be reasonable. I was the one who warned us against any intimacy,’ Ruslan argued in disbelief. ‘I gave up my home, my friends, my comforts. I killed a man in Lord Hampton’s hall. I fled across a continent for you. Are those the actions of a man who isn’t in love?’
‘Varvakis did the same,’ she refuted. She was breaking. She could feel it inside, pieces of her shattering, her very soul fracturing at the betrayal. The bastard, Ryabkin, was right. She’d been used and she’d been oblivious to it, distracted by passion and pleasure. ‘Varvakis rescued me from fire and took me into hiding at great risk to himself, for a cause. Not for love.’
‘Dasha, golubushka.’ Ruslan reached for her, but she stepped away. If he touched her, he would steal the last of her strength, he would find a way to persuade her. She needed anger now. Anger would make her strong. Every moment of their time together played through her mind in a painful kaleidoscope, each event taking on a different cast when seen through the lens of betrayal: he’d fled London because he needed her alive; he’d argued against her doubts in Marseilles because he needed a princess to take to Kuban. His agenda could not be advanced if he arrived empty-handed. He’d worked tirelessly in Kuban to advance his own power and prestige. Even now, he argued Varvakis’s confession changed nothing because he needed a princess. Not because he loved her, but because she was his tool.
Of all the people she should have questioned, she should have questioned him the most and she hadn’t. She’d simply accepted his gifts, his hospitality, his affections. She should have asked why long before this. ‘Do you want to be King?’ As the words left her lips, she felt the fabric of their relationship rip a little further. Soon there would be nothing left but shreds.
* * *
Did he want to be King? The words fell on Ruslan like a hammer and just as stunning. Did she truly imagine he was capable of such a duplicity? That he was a man who would bed a woman for the purpose of stealing her crown? ‘No.’ The word was choked, his emotions churning. ‘You know that, Dasha.’ They’d never talked of it. But she knew, didn’t she? Dasha would never have come to his bed if she’d feared he’d angle for what some men would consider the biggest prize of all. Sex would have given him too much leverage and she was too smart for that. But who could say any more? This entire conversation had become surreal. Just hours ago, they’d been engaged in rather more intimate activity.
‘You are a Prince of Kuban. You have rendered me enormous services, you have risked yourself, left your comforts. I owe you far more than money. Perhaps you think I owe you the throne. If not you, then perhaps I owe your son?’ Her eyes were knife-sharp. ‘Greater men than you have sought kingships through any means possible: armies, marriage, children.’
The last word lingered between them. ‘Dasha, you know I’ve been careful. I do not aspire to put a son of mine on the throne through you.’ He said the words in slow, measured tones, but his temper flared. To think that she doubted him! That Ryabkin had managed to take her from him with the sowing of distrust. ‘I risked my life for you, Dasha, not for a kingdom.’
‘You don’t even know who I am!’ she hissed. ‘But that’s all right, isn’t it? You don’t need to know, you just need a body. You and Ryabkin aren’t so different after all. You both need bodies, only you need yours alive.’ She stormed towards the door, picking up her cloak where it had fallen last night. Had it only been last night they’d been locked in an embrace against that wall? And now their world had come apart. He did not know how to fix this.
Ruslan gripped her arm, not wanting her to run heedlessly out into the corridor. ‘Dasha, stop! You’re overwrought.’
Her eyes locked with his. ‘Or maybe I’m seeing the truth for the very first time.’
‘I know you, Dasha. I know your heart, I know your goodness, your intelligence, your compassion,’ Ruslan said solemnly. ‘Kuban co
uld not wish for a better queen.’
‘No.’ Her voice softened. ‘You could not wish for a better queen.’ She tugged at her arm and he let her go, not willing to hurt her in order to make her stay. ‘I can’t do this any more, Ruslan. I can’t be wondering who to trust, so I will trust no one. We’re done.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
They were not done. He’d sworn to protect her and he would. He’d promised he’d be beside her today. Ruslan fingered the dagger at his belt as he stood at the grave site, surrounded by others. There was a knife in his jacket sleeve and another in his boot. He’d come discreetly, but well armed, expecting trouble. Dasha stood a short distance from him, a veil over her face for privacy and respect for the occasion. The Count would not take her, no matter what was found in that grave, no matter what doubt Ryabkin had sown in her mind. He had lost his father to the Count’s scheming. He would not lose the woman he loved no matter how determined she was to the contrary, no matter how bleak the prospect seemed.
Exhumation was the most distasteful event Ruslan had ever been part of, made worse by the fact that Ryabkin had turned it into a spectacle. The council members were not the only ones in attendance. Noble families had driven out from the city as well, looking to make entertainment of this horrific event. They sat in their parked carriages, chatting with each other. Some had even brought picnics. Apparently, they hadn’t taken the possibility of unpleasant odours into account.
‘Good day, Pisarev.’ The Count passed by, looking smug. Ruslan detained him with a firm grip. Regardless of what Dasha thought of his ambition, he would serve her still and in that service there was hope he could convince her his motives were pure.
‘This is not what was agreed upon,’ Ruslan said in low tones. ‘You have turned this into a circus. It was supposed to be private.’
Ryabkin smirked. ‘In the new Kuban, there will be transparency. There will be no more hiding of secrets. Why should only the council be entitled to the truth? Why shouldn’t everyone know what we know? See what we see?’ He narrowed his gaze. ‘I’m surprised you don’t agree with me, Prince Pisarev. I recall you were quite the liberal. Has that changed?’ The slur was intentional. ‘Do you no longer seek democracy?’
‘I never sought democracy,’ Ruslan answered. ‘A republic will serve just as well. If I were you, I’d fear the mob.’
‘If I were me, which I am, I would control the mob and I do. You’d best remember that.’ Ryabkin eyed Dasha. ‘I hope she was worth it, Pisarev. She must be one hell of a woman in bed. When she goes down, you go with her. I’ll personally see to it.’ Ruslan’s hand curled about the hilt of his dagger.
Serebrov hurried over to them, interrupting. ‘Count, your diggers are here. You’d best get them started.’ His tone was cold and it was obvious he would lend Ryabkin no hand. If the Count wanted the grave exhumed, he’d have to see to it himself even though the council agreed to it.
Digging took a while. The ground was already chilled with winter and the dirt was hard. The bodies had been buried deeply if unceremoniously. This had not been a state funeral with coffins and embalming. Nearer to the site, Ryabkin swore and covered his mouth with a handkerchief. It was all the signal Ruslan needed. Dasha would not tolerate his touch, but he could stand in front of her, a bodily shield against the grotesquerie of the grave. He would bear this for her. He would not give Ryabkin the satisfaction of watching her break.
Serebrov had loud words for Ryabkin as the doctors came forward to verify the grave’s contents. Ruslan drew Dasha to the back of the crowd. There was no need for her to look, only to wait. Serebrov made the announcement shortly. ‘There are five bodies. Not six. It is the opinion of the doctors that a female, aged twenty, is not among them. The official conclusion is that Princess Dasha was not executed with the rest of the royal family.’
Behind him, Dasha’s relief was a palpable thing. Around him, excited conversations sprang up. Serebrov’s announcement was met with talk and speculation. Would the Princess be crowned now? What did that mean for the revolt? Would it be a return of old-fashion policies, had their revolution been in vain? Throughout it all, Dasha remained silent. Now, she spoke, ostensibly to him, Ruslan thought. ‘I am going to the palace.’
He moved closer to her, his voice low. ‘Dasha, the palace was looted, it was partially burnt,’ Ruslan tried to dissuade her. There had already been so much tragedy today. Revisiting the site of even more tragedy seemed a poor choice, but she would not be put off.
‘I want to see it now, Prince Pisarev. I’ve been delaying it, like a coward. I should have come here straight away, but I didn’t. Please tell Serebrov that I’ve gone up.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
Dasha shook her head. ‘No. I want to go alone. I need time to think.’
Every instinct in him argued hard against acceding to her wishes. In the end, he let her go. He couldn’t protect her from this and maybe he shouldn’t. Some things needed to be faced alone. This had to be her pilgrimage to the one place that might solve her last mystery. She would never find her way back to him until she found the way back to herself.
* * *
She could not be his until she knew. She could not live her life in doubt of her very identity and by extension in doubt of Ruslan’s motives, although she was already regretting her harsh words this morning. She had been angry and overwrought. Her words had destroyed him. She’d seen it in his eyes. Yet he’d served her, stood by her at the grave, protecting her still even though she’d rejected him. More than that, she’d questioned his honour. Beneath her clothing, she could feel the weight of his ring against her skin, a reminder of his pledge. Why was it so hard to accept that one man had acted out of good simply because so many other men had acted out of self-interest? If she asked him to, would he forgive her? Would it matter?
Dasha began the long walk up the drive, summoning her courage in every step, wishing for Ruslan in every step. If he were here, he would walk beside her and recreate the palace with his words so that it would look as it once had, not this ruin that lay before her. She couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her. Not much had been done to clean it up in the aftermath of the storming. The beautiful gates hung by torn hinges, listing awkwardly. The grass had been churned into mud by hooves and boots and hordes of people carrying off treasure. She understood an angry populace and their grievances, but she did not condone needless destruction and this was what that was. The palace hardly resembled the elegant home of the midsummer ball.
Dasha smiled as the memory took her. She’d not been old enough to attend, but she remembered sneaking peeks of the guests from the balcony. Dasha looked up automatically to the broken remnants of the balcony railing. Her smile broadened and in her mind’s eye the palace was beautiful once more. Carriages would arrive up the drive. Three vehicles could travel abreast easily without coachmen worrying over colliding wheels. Others who chose to arrive by barge sailed up the river to where the gardens met the dock. The backside of the palace was arranged much like Peterhof, with its gardens leading down to the water. The ball took place everywhere, not just in the ballroom. There were always three orchestras engaged: one for the front lawns, one for the back gardens and the one for the ballroom. People could dance under the stars. She knew. She’d watched them. Dasha twirled in celebration, letting elation take her. She was home! Really, truly home.
At the top of the front steps, she cleared a path through the rubble of what had been the exquisite wood-carved front doors and her elation dimmed as she stepped inside. What would she learn here? Would it change anything? Inside the grand hall splintered wood lay on the ground, remnants of furniture that had once been. Even the marble tiles of the hall had been chipped and dug up in places, the wallpaper wantonly ripped. Walls charred and black from the smoke. Her gaze moved past the destruction to the famed staircase with its wide, elegant, curve. The place where it happened.
Dasha l
ooked up the staircase, reliving Varvakis’s account. Her eyes went to the landing where the carved balustrade was shattered and the fire had burnt away the floor. She put a foot on the stairs, her hand gripping the remaining balustrade as the memories surged in a jumbled haze. Her mind struggled for order. Every step up the stairs was a step back in time. She could practically smell the smoke. The stairs weakened, the balustrade crumbled beneath her hand, falling away in places where she touched it. She should stop, go back. But she couldn’t. She had to know. For herself, for Ruslan, for what they might have together. She had to be brave.
Her heart raced, it was hard to breathe. At the top of the stairs, her vision started to fade, the edges of her periphery going black, images of the past blending with the present. Someone was behind her. Of course. That was how it had happened. There was a man on the landing. Dasha turned, knowing full well a man, an enemy, would be there when she did. But she couldn’t stop the dream. The dream had merged with reality. The enemy had become Ryabkin. A real man, or a phantom of her imagination? It was hard to tell.
‘You’ve picked a perfect place to die.’
His knife was out. Ryabkin had come for her, or was this the soldier in the dream? Did it matter? Both were lethal. Both would see her dead. She should be fighting. Where was her sword?
Dasha stumbled backwards, dangerously near the gaping floor. There was no weapon. Panic seized her, the dream blending with the now. She had to fight, she couldn’t faint. Dasha was counting on her. She had to protect Dasha, the others were dead. Shot on the lawn. She wouldn’t let them get Dasha, she’d promised she’d see her safe—Dasha, not just her Princess, but her best friend, the sister of her heart.
The realisation swamped her.
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 21
