Love and Triumph: The Coltrane Saga, Book 8

by Patricia Hagan

  Marilee squeezed his hand and asked, “So what do you do all day to keep yourself busy?”

  He shrugged and took a sip of his vodka. Then he looked from her bosom to her face and gave her a suggestive wink. “I count the hours till I can see you, dushka. And I wonder how long you are going to make me suffer for your company in a more private place, where we can really get to know each other.”

  She squirmed in her chair playfully. “Oh, tell me,” she continued to tease him. “What do you do?”

  Relaxed by the vodka, and feeling that he had no reason to be on guard with her, he said casually, “Oh, we have some prisoners to keep an eye on. Some radical counterrevolutionaries. Whites, they call themselves.” He sneered. “I call them sons of bitches and say they should be shot.”

  Marilee straightened in her chair and put her hand to her throat. “You mean there are dangerous prisoners kept around here? I didn’t know—”

  “No one knows,” he hissed, suddenly realizing that he had said too much. “Forget what I just told you.”

  He reached to squeeze her arm so hard that she winced with the pain and cried, “Boris, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

  He released her but continued to glare at her. “You ask too many questions, dushka. I must be careful. It is not wise to trust anyone these days.”

  Her heart was pounding. She now knew that headquarters had been right. There were political prisoners being held near Tobolsk, and there was every reason to believe that her father was one of them. Now, more than ever, she had to gain Boris’s confidence and learn as much as possible from him.

  Taking a deep breath, Marilee leaned forward and gave him her most beguiling smile as she huskily whispered, “You can trust me, my sweet, because I trust you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t accept your invitation to have a drink with you at your apartment later tonight.”

  He looked at her silently for a few seconds. Then, when he realized that she was quite serious, his rugged face took on a happy glow. “Yes, yes, you can trust me, Natasha. I am your friend. I want to be more,” he added meaningfully.

  “Time will tell.” She winked.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. No matter what it took, she would find out if her father was being held prisoner, and where.

  It was nearly closing time when Boris signaled to her. “I’m going to leave now,” he said, paying her for his drinks and giving her a generous tip. “I want to make sure I’ve got a nice fire burning and some caviar and chilled vodka waiting. Maybe I’ll even make us a tray of fish and cheese. Would you like that?”

  “Anything.” She leaned to pick up the money from the table and looked at him through lowered lashes. She let her breast brush against his arm and heard his soft gasp. “Anything, Boris. I do want to get to know you better.”

  As he left, Marilee stared after him. She was going to have to be on guard, lest she find herself in a situation from which there would be no escape.

  He returned promptly when the restaurant closed, and Marilee gathered her thick wool cape about her and prepared to step out into the frigid night.

  And then she stopped dead in her tracks.

  Could it be?

  She blinked as she saw two men crossing the street and coming toward the restaurant. The wind was blowing mercilessly and snow was whipping about them. She told herself she was wrong, that she had mistaken the second man for someone else.

  He could not be Cord Brandt.

  Not here.

  He looked up as he stepped onto the wooden boardwalk, and her heart leaped to her mouth. It was Cord. He was about to speak, but then he stiffened. The bearded man with him was a stranger to her, and it was he who asked, disappointed, “Is the restaurant closed for the night? We’ve come a long way, and—”

  “It is closed!” Boris snapped abruptly, annoyed by the way one of them was looking at Natasha. He started to walk by them, pulling her with him.

  Marilee could not move. Dear God, what was Cord doing here? What did it mean?

  “Natasha!” Boris said coldly, giving her hand a tug. “Come with me. Now.”

  Cord blinked, mouthing the name silently.

  Suddenly she came to life. She knew that if she continued to stand there, she risked being exposed. She allowed Boris to pull her along and refused to look back.

  “I’ve seen that one with the beard before. I think he’s a subversive. I’ve got men checking to find out what business he has here, though there is little doubt,” Boris added with a sneer.

  “And what might that be?” Marilee asked.

  “Why, they’re here to try to free the Czar, of course. We’ve been watching how they pour into the village—former officers of the Czar using assumed names, secretive visitors with precise Petrograd accents mingling with shopkeepers and merchants. They ask questions and make promises, and then disappear.

  “It’s not as easy to make contact with the Imperial family now. Still, we’re always alert to strangers—especially when we know for a fact that they’re Whites,” he finished angrily.

  Dear Lord, where on earth did he get that idea? She could not vouch for the man with him, but she knew that Cord Brandt was a Bolshevik through and through. “What makes you think they are Whites?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.

  “What else could they be?” He led her down an alley beside a general store, then up a narrow stairway to a single door.

  As he fumbled for a key, Marilee dared to probe him further. “But the other one. What about him? Why do you think he’s White?”

  Boris pushed the door open, and they were greeted by the cozy warmth of a softly burning fire in the grate. He turned to take her in his arms. “Don’t worry about him, dushka,” he said thickly, his lips nuzzling her face. “That is work for me to do tomorrow. Tonight, you have only to worry about me—and how much I adore you.”

  Marilee took a deep breath. Swallowing against the bile of revulsion that rose in her throat, she lifted her lips for his kiss.

  Thoughts of Cord Brandt would have to wait till later. Now she had to become the world’s greatest actress—and remind herself every single second that she was doing it to find a way to free the father she adored.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Marilee knew that accepting Boris’s invitation to go to his apartment meant he would think she had finally given up all her reservations and was ready to go to bed with him—just as she also knew she had no intention of doing so. She would have to be very tactful, lest he get mad. All she wanted was to gain his confidence and get him to talk. Although it was a big risk, she was banking on him passing out before he got too amorous—or determined. All evening she had ordered his drinks doubled and paid the difference in his bill out of her own pocket. She knew that vodka sneaked up on a person, and Boris Gorchakov was just arrogant enough to think he had no limit.

  “So, you like my place?” Boris asked as he moved to a sideboard where there was yet more vodka. Without waiting for her to respond, he went on. “When I received my orders for this obscene outpost, I was determined to have my privacy. No barracks for me.”

  Marilee glanced around the huge room. It was like an attic, with eaves and tiny arched windows. The floor was wooden and worn, and the furniture was sparse. In a far corner was the sleeping area, where a muslin curtain hung from ceiling to floor to conceal, she supposed, a bed.

  “Nice,” she said finally, taking the glass of vodka he held out to her.

  He downed his drink in one gulp, his black eyes shining as he leered at her over the rim. Then he threw the glass into the fireplace and lunged for her. “Ahh, but not as nice as you, dushka!”

  Marilee lost her balance as his huge arms wrapped around her, spilling her drink down the front of the cape she was still wearing.

  She gasped, “Oh, Boris, look what you’ve made me do,” pretending to be more dismayed than she was. Actually, she was glad for the excuse to slow things down a bit.

  He dropped his arms and apologized. “I’m sorr
y, so sorry. I’ve just waited so long for this moment, Natasha. Come, let me get something to dry—”

  “No, no, it’s all right. I’ll just take it off and hang it by the fire. You can get me a fresh drink, though.”

  He turned to oblige her, and she took her time draping the garment on a chair. Then she sat down on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. With the grin of a small boy about to be given a cookie, he took his place. Then, as he started to embrace her again, Marilee quickly lifted her glass. “To us and to our friendship.”

  “Ahh, I gladly drink to that.” After clicking his glass against hers, Boris downed his vodka. He then reached for her again, but this time he carefully took her drink and set it on the floor.

  His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, his lips devouring. It was all she could do to keep from shoving him away in revulsion. As it was, she could only lie there, accepting his kisses and caresses. Try as she might, she could not respond.

  But Boris was too drunk to notice. He was, Marilee thought disgustedly, like a big, sloppy hog, grunting and snorting as he thrust himself against her. Finally she could stand no more. She mustered every ounce of strength she possessed to push him away. “Please, darling, please. You rush me! I worked all day, and I’m starving. You promised me caviar, and—”

  “And you’ve been promising me something for weeks now,” he snarled, reaching for her again.

  His arrogance stung her, and despite her resolve, Marilee could not let it go by. “I promised you nothing!” she retorted hotly, wriggling out from beneath him. “And if this is all you want from me, then I’ve made a mistake in considering you a friend.”

  She got to her feet and reached for her cape, knowing that he would never let her leave.

  She was right.

  As she’d expected, Boris was right behind her, clutching her shoulders. “I am so sorry, Natasha. So sorry. It is only that you drive me crazy. You’re so beautiful…” He began to rain kisses on the back of her neck.

  “Then do not rush me!” She whirled around, her eyes flashing. “I’m not an animal, Boris. I’m a woman, and I want tenderness.

  “Besides,” she added with a coquettish smile, “I can also be tender…when I’ve had enough vodka.”

  At that, Boris whirled around to get fresh drinks for them both.

  When they were again settled on the sofa, Marilee snuggled close to him. “I want to be more to you than just someone to lay with, Boris,” she said softly.

  She did not miss the way he caught his breath at her remark.

  Turning to face him, she asked, “What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

  “Well…” he said hesitantly, “I think I should tell you—it cannot be…” His voice trailed off apologetically.

  She blinked in feigned confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  He would not look at her. “I’m married,” he mumbled.

  “Well, did you think I wanted marriage?” Marilee asked.

  Suddenly a hopeful gleam appeared in his black eyes. “But what did you mean?”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “How did you ever get to be a high-ranking officer when you’re so naive, Boris Gorchakov? I don’t expect you to marry me merely because we sleep together. I am only saying that I want to be more to you than just pleasure for one night.” She began to dance her fingertips up and down his arm. “I want us to make each other happy for as long as you are here.”

  “That…that is fine with me!” He grinned.

  He started to set his glass aside, but she stopped him. “What I want is for us to get to know each other better, Boris. I did not come here tonight just to crawl into bed with you. You must be patient and slow and loving, or I’ll find a soldier who will be.”

  His eyes darkened. He did not like the game she was playing, but he realized that he would have to go along with her rules if he wanted her in his bed with him every night. And oh, how he did. “Very well,” he growled. “What is it you want me to do?”

  She snuggled against him again. “Oh, talk to me. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about the wonderful lover I’m going to have for a long, long time.”

  Flattered by her interest, he began to tell Marilee about his past, his prowess as a Red soldier, and his great work in the Bolshevik revolution. She even learned that his wife lived in Petrograd and they had two small daughters.

  Then she dared to begin her interrogation. “Tell me about your work now.”

  Boris shrugged. “It is not so interesting. I don’t like being around the governor’s house and the Imperial family, because I loathe them and everything they represent. So I spend most of my time at our stockade for political prisoners.”

  “That sounds dangerous.” She forced a little shiver. “Do you have many terribly evil men there?”

  He sneered. “Since when is a White dangerous? They are all cowards, hiding underground like rabbits, afraid to come out and say who they are. We get them in prison, and they snivel and cower.”

  “All of them?” she pressed. “How many do you have there?”

  As he had been bragging about himself, he had been drinking constantly. His words were starting to slur, and Marilee knew he would not be alert much longer.

  He narrowed his eyes in thoughtful contemplation. “Oh, less than a dozen.”

  “And they are all cowards?” she challenged him. “Then why do they need you? If you are as brave and courageous as you say, why do they waste your talents on sniveling men? Why don’t they send you into battle?”

  She knew that, sober, he would have become angry at such a remark, but with so much vodka flowing in his veins, he merely snickered. “Oh, they aren’t all cowards. There are a few that are quite formidable, and that is why Lenin himself ordered me to be in charge!” He pounded himself on his chest proudly for emphasis.

  Marilee took a deep breath and pushed on, trying to sound mildly disinterested. “Oh, really? Which ones? Do you have any important prisoners?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied quickly. “We have the infamous Drakar Mikhailonov, who…”

  The rest of his words were lost in the sudden roaring that exploded in her ears. Dear God, it was true! They did hold her father prisoner—and so very, very near.

  She felt herself sinking into a deep void. Only with great effort was she finally able to give herself a mental shake and return to the present. He had grown silent, and she feared he had noticed her reaction. Making her voice as normal as possible, she turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m more tired than I thought. What were you saying—”

  Then she saw that he had finally passed out.

  His head lolled to one side, and his hand was slowly dropping. She reached for the glass he held in his hand and caught it just before it crashed to the floor.

  The confirmation of her father’s imprisonment and seeing Cord, both in the span of a few hours, were just too much to comprehend. She needed time to think things out, to decide, what she should do next.

  Quietly, she got up and reached for her cape and crept toward the door. Then, as an afterthought, so that Boris would not be too angry when he woke up and realized she had left him, she took a blanket from the end of the sofa and tucked it about him. He would think she had been angry because he had passed out, and he would be the one to apologize.

  Then she left and hurried through the frigid night to her own quarters, where, only because of the vodka she’d consumed, she was able to finally fall asleep.

  She was awakened by an urgent knock on her door. Opening heavy eyelids, she glanced about groggily in the lavender light that spilled through a corner window.

  The knocking continued.

  “Who is it?” she called irritably, thinking it was probably old Micar, the man who cleaned up the tavern, wanting help. Occasionally she’d come to his aid after a particularly busy night when there was much to be done, but if he was awakening her before good daylight to help, she was not going to be very obliging.

  There was no res
ponse.

  She threw back the covers, snatched up her robe, and padded barefoot across the cold wooden floor. Outside, the world was a white glaze.

  “Micar, you’ve got a nerve—”

  She jerked open the door and froze.

  Cord stepped in and slammed the door behind him.

  He took her in his arms and gave her a rough shake. “What the hell are you doing here? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you last night! Dammit, Marilee, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

  Her shock was quickly overcome by fury, and she began to struggle and twist in his grasp as she retorted hotly, “And what are you doing here? Pretending to be a White when you’re a dirty Bolshevik, and—”

  He covered her mouth with his hand, wrestling her toward the bed. He threw her down roughly, then fell beside her and held her tightly. “You want to wake the whole village?” he ‘hissed. “Now listen to me, dammit. I’ve got something to tell you, and you’re going to listen.”

  She managed to bite one of his fingers, and when he yanked his hand away in pain, she cried, “No, damn you, Cord Brandt! You listen to me!” She was careful to keep her voice down, lest someone hear. She could not risk exposure any more than he could. “I’m an impostor just like you are, because I’m trying to get my father out of prison, and if you reveal my true identity, I’ll do the same to you. So it’s best you just get the hell out of here and forget you saw me, or that you know anything at all about me.”

  He stared down at her incredulously, then he suddenly threw back his head and laughed.

  “What is so goddamn funny?” she demanded fiercely.

  He shook his head and continued to chuckle. “I don’t believe this—both of us pretending to be Red, only not at the same time.”

  She was baffled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m trying to tell you, little one.” He gazed down at her adoringly. “I’m on your side. I always have been. I was going to tell you before, when you ran away. I’m not working for the Bolsheviks. I was always working for the counterrevolutionaries—the Whites. My job was to look out for you—to protect you.”