Once the meal is finished, Peter leads the assembly to the throne room, taking his seat with a flourish. He’s brought in a small side chair to sit beside his on the pedestal, which Elizavetta falls onto without hesitation. Once more, all eyes swing to me and I make a show of climbing the few steps and folding myself gracefully onto the floor to Peter’s other side.
Once everyone has filed in, Peter stands, clapping his hands once. “I have gathered you together to witness a momentous occasion.” The crowd hushes. “This week, my son and heir was taken by those who would seek to destabilize our beloved country. Those men have been executed. But before their deaths, it was discovered that one of them had ties to Danish court.”
I watch in horror as his eyes lock on to Alexander in the crowd. “While I cannot prove he was acting on orders from the Danish king, I have decided that a show of force is necessary. And so this week, I am dispatching troops to Demark. We will take the country, and any who oppose us will be razed to the ground.” He lifts a glass as if to toast, but the room is silent.
I stand, leaning over and whispering. “Peter, you can’t declare war on Denmark with no evidence. They are our ally. If you attack them unprovoked—” I don’t get to finish my thought. His hand shoots out, slapping me in the face so hard I pitch forward and roll down the small staircase.
My ears are still ringing when he slowly climbs down and takes a handful of my hair in his fist, lifting me to my feet. I make a strangled noise, but I manage to keep from crying out, though my eyes water from the sting.
He sweeps a glance around the room. “There may be some of you who question my decisions. But I am sovereign Russia. This country, and everyone in it, belongs to me. I decide who we will be at war with, and I will decide who to call my wife.”
He’s shouting now, spittle flying from his mouth as he takes two steps forward, dragging me with him. When he finally releases me, I stumble but manage to keep my feet under me.
“George, take her to the cells!”
I blink, steeling myself to be taken into custody. But to my surprise, George doesn’t move. He simply lowers his head.
“Mikhail!” Peter yells, looking for support from his oldest friend. Mikhail rushes to Peter’s side and furiously whispers. Peter waves him off in an angry fit.
“Guards, take her!” he orders. Two guards near the rear door move, only to be met with a line of nobles blocking their path. My own guards rush in, swords drawn, and circle me.
I can feel the rage radiating off Peter in waves. Straightening myself, I hold up my hands. “No, please. Let them through.” Then to Grigori, “Let them take me; that is my command.”
Reluctantly, the nobles step aside and my guards retreat. But before his guards can touch me, Peter screams and they freeze. “No! You will not obey her. You will obey me!”
For a long moment, no one moves. Battle lines have been drawn, and it’s as if the entire assembly might erupt into a bloody massacre right here in open court. My breath is coming too fast, I realize, forcing myself to still against the rising panic. Unsure what else to do to defuse the situation, I turn to Peter and curtsy deeply.
“Yes, we will obey our king!” I say, my voice as steady as I can make it. Around me, others do the same, some even dropping to one knee.
Finally, Peter takes a deep breath, seeming to calm. But it’s a menacing sound, one I know all too well, and goose bumps break out across my skin. It’s the sound the wind makes before it blows—the sound of waves an instant before they crash to the shore. The sound of inevitability. While I realize that nothing can stop him now, I know I must try anyway. I must attempt to contain the damage.
“Punish me, if you will, but leave the others. It was only their deep sense of chivalry that drove them to defend me, nothing more,” I plead.
The side of his mouth curls up as Peter nods. “Yes, you must be punished. You publically challenged my authority, and your punishment will be equally public.”
I swallow hard. A flogging, if I’m lucky. Or perhaps simply a few days in the stockade. He will punish me, but he will not kill me, not even for this. I sag, a moment of relief washing over me, but he sees it, and in his eyes, I see something change.
Moving slowly across the room, he grabs a crystal flask of liquid, each step, each gesture, exaggerated like a court fool might. When he moves back to me, he holds it close enough for me to smell, swirling the clear liquid inside. Vodka? My confusion lasts only a moment.
“An example must be made,” he continues.
Slowly, he begins pouring it down my shoulders, into my hair, and down my white, feathered gown. The liquid is cold against my hot flesh, soaking into the heavy damask and crinoline. The heavy odor fills my lungs, making each breath sting. Around me, people watch, looks of shock and horror etched onto their faces. I find Sergei in the crowd and hold his gaze. His blue-green eyes are narrowed, his hand hovering inches above the long knife attached to his waistcoat. I shake my head, imperceptibly, and he blinks, still not relaxing. He’s trying to decide if he’s going to come to my rescue, but I know that if he does, Peter will kill us both. His jaw clenches, but finally, he drops his hand. I feel myself relax, just a bit, as Peter begins speaking again, drawing my attention to his face. He’s excited, like a child about to play his favorite game. It’s then that the real fear hits me.
“My aunt didn’t believe in executing her enemies. She understood that death was a privilege, that there were far worse things.” He pauses, sweeping the room with a glance. “Let me be very clear. I will not tolerate any disloyalty.” He replaces the now-empty flask on the tray and picks up a lit candle from the nearby candelabra. I hold his gaze as he walks slowly toward me, each footstep echoing in the deathly still room. The pulse beats in my ears so loudly it drowns out all other sounds, my heart fluttering in my ribcage like a hummingbird. I will not let him see me afraid, I decide, steeling myself. I will not give him the pleasure. I would rather die in flames right now than to let him break me again. Lifting my chin, I refuse to falter.
Once he’s close enough, he leans in close, whispering into my ear. “I have wanted to do this for a very long time, wife.”
He touches the flame to my gown. All I can do is scream as chaos erupts around me.
The flames lick up my gown, catching into my hair, the smell of burnt hair and feathers suffocating me as I continue to scream. I fumble with the laces of my gown, but I can’t reach them. I’m barely aware of the other screams, of the nobles and guests rushing from the room. Behind me, Peter is yelling for them to watch, to watch me burn as a witch should. Then he laughs. The sound of it rolls through me, mixing with the fire and the pain. Hands are on me, some patting out the fire with bare skin, others fumbling to help me shed the cloth. The fabric is falling from me in flaming strips, yet I still can’t free myself. Even as I’m writhing, fighting to keep the flames off my face, I feel the first burns on my flesh, on my back, my arms, and my neck. It’s a blinding pain, one that drives all reason away.
The next thing I know, someone is ripping the remnants of my dress off me, tossing it aside. Hands press wet cloth to my head and neck, somehow both soothing and upsetting the burns. I scream, but I can’t move. I’m not crying, there’s far too much anger and fear for that, but I’m shaking all over. Pairs of arms cradle me. Opening my eyes, I see that Sergei, Alexander, and Grigori are all holding me, cocooned safely in their arms. I can barely see Peter, but I do see Mikhail holding him back as he rages. There are other hands now, lifting, carrying, helping me from the room into the hall. I’m nothing but pain; everything else has been burned away. When they touch me, I cry out, but they must get me out of the room. Some distant piece of my mind knows that. Soon, the pain becomes too much and the darkness wraps me in sweet, blissful oblivion.
I don’t remember making it to my room, but I register the feel of gentle hands peeling the last of the melted fabric from my body, and then lifting me into a tub of cool water. At first, it hurts, the burns are raw and
the water is like a million bee stings, forcing my consciousness back into my body, but then I let myself settle into it, the pain fading into something close to pleasure—relief. Someone else is in the water too, pouring the cool liquid over my shoulders and chest. Another set of hands is working fingers through my hair, pressing a damp cloth to my face. I know their touches without opening my eyes.
My men—my hearts.
When I can finally breathe again, my eyes flutter open and I’m staring up into Alexander’s warm, dark eyes. Behind me, I hear Sergei humming softly, a tune both foreign and familiar, like something out of a dream. Dash bursts into the room with a jar of oil they pour in the water and gently rub into my skin. I murmur thanks and she slowly backs away, leaving me to my rescuers. Alexander, still clothed in his midnight blue costume suit, kneels in the basin at my feet, massaging the oil into my legs. Rolling my head back, I catch sight of Sergei doing the same for my neck and shoulders. The oil begins to numb my skin, drawing the last of the flames from my body. It tingles, a cool, refreshing tickle. Sighing deeply, I relax against the back of the copper tub, just relishing their gentle touches.
Now, their faces twin masks of concern and love, they are as radiant as God’s own angels. Deep inside me, the rage subsides, giving way to a stranger, stronger feeling, a need I cannot quite explain. My hands float in the water, shaking hard enough to create ripples in the surface.
The shaking intensifies until I’m an earthquake, my body wracked with spasm after spasm. All I can feel is the want, the pulling need to draw them to me and never let them go. Pushing forward through the water, I press myself into Alexander’s arms. He hesitates only a fraction of a moment before submitting, before relaxing against me. But even his embrace isn’t enough to fill the cavernous need inside me. Reaching back, I grab Sergei by the shirt, dragging him into the water with us. Once I feel him against my back, something inside me purrs contentedly. The shaking subsides as both men wrap their arms around me. If it’s strange or awkward, I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything beyond the familiar ridges of their bodies. Sergei lowers his head and kisses my shoulder, my hair, my ear. I’m on fire again, only this time, it’s a good burn, a healing burn, if such a thing exists. The last remnants of fear and doubt are scorched from existence.
Alexander rests his head against mine, murmuring. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you. Can you forgive me?”
Reaching up, I graze his bottom lip with my fingers and he kisses them reverently.
As I turn to look over my shoulder, Sergei sees my unspoken demand and leans in, kissing me hard on the mouth, our lips locking until I can’t breathe, until I’m drowning in him. When he releases me, Alexander tips my chin to him and does the same. He tries to pull back but I grab him by the back of the neck, holding the kiss until my lungs scream for air.
Finally, Sergei stands, stepping from the deep tub, his clothes dripping onto the marble floor. Reaching down, he lifts me from the water as if I’m completely weightless. Alexander follows as he carries me to my room, setting me gently on the bed. My skin tingles in the breeze from the open window and, despite my nakedness, I feel completely safe. Alexander lights the bedside lamp, illuminating the room in a soft, golden glow. Crawling onto the bed behind me, Sergei begins brushing out my hair, the wet drops falling like rain down my bare back. Alexander moves in front of me, stripping off his soaking jacket and shirt to reveal his bare, muscular chest. Slowly, he kneels, his eyes locked on mine. He kisses one knee, and then the other, his lips tracing their way up my thighs as I arch my back in anticipation.
Sergei’s body vanishes for a minute, making me mewl desperately. When he returns to my back, his body is as naked as my own. He wraps his hands around me, cupping my bare breasts in his powerful hands.
They are mine, my sun and my moon, the best and worst parts of me, my strength and my weakness, my mortal sin and my fatal flaw. I draw them against me, needing them as I need air in my lungs, aching for them in ways I never imagined possible.
I fall into them, into the melding of flesh and souls. For these few hours of flesh and kisses and driving passion, it feels as if the world is mine, as if nothing bad can touch me and everything I’ve ever wanted is mine for the taking.
***
The morning comes in a haze. I sit up in bed, still nude as the day I was born, and sore all over. I look myself over. The burns are red and angry. There are no blisters that I can see, but when my sheets graze the marks, I flinch in pain. I wonder for a moment if my memories of last night were real, or a pain-induced dream. I wonder how, after what Peter has done, I can wake up feeling so calm and secure. But more than anything, I wonder what strange turn my life will take next.
Dash knocks on my door before peeking her head in. “Your Highness, are you ready to dress? I’ve sent for some coffee.”
I wave her in, feeling more chipper than I have any right to after Peter’s escapade. After applying another vial of oil to calm my burns, we dress slowly, each layer of cloth rubbing raw against my tender flesh, and when I turn to the mirror, my reflection shocks me. My hair, my long, ebony black hair, is matted and gnarled up to my shoulders. I touch it, and brittle balls of melted hair fall into my hand.
“Don’t worry; I’m sure Jean can repair it,” Dash offers with a weak smile.
I wordlessly nod. It’s not so much my hair that bothers me, but the fact that Peter has finally shown his true colors to the masses. No one will support his insanity now. People will be desperate to be free of him, painting even more of a target on not just Peter’s own head, but on tiny Paul’s as well.
There’s no choice now. For the first time, the path ahead of me is as clear as midday. To keep myself, my country, and my son safe, I’m going to have to rally forces against my husband.
The thought curls tight knots into my stomach, but when I step into my outer chamber, I’m stunned. Flowers, gifts, and letters of well wishes in the wake of Peter’s outburst fill the room until the odor, the sickly sweet bouquet of hundreds of flowers, is nearly overpowering.
“Dash, make a list of everyone who sent a gift or a letter. I will want to personally thank each of them,” I order, stepping through the maze of gifts.
She nods and settles me into the vanity chair before rushing off for paper and a quill. Jean enters the room, and though he tries to hide it, his dismay at my state is plain on his face. He bows, recovering himself before opening his trunk of brushes and irons.
He pulls out a pair of sheers like one might use on a lamb.
“It’s quite uneven, Your Highness. I think it best we even it out before we begin.”
“Whatever you can do, Jean.”
He nods, biting down on his bottom lip before hacking away. When he’s finished, the line of hair is well above my shoulders, but smooth and straight.
“I can add bits of wig,” he offers.
I shake my head. “No, let it be. I want people to see what Peter has done. I will not hide from it. It is his shame to bear, not my own.”
He nods. Taking two strands from each side, he skillfully pulls the strands back and braids them through my hair, leaving the back straight. He adds a few jeweled combs and my tiara. If anything, having the hair back and off my shoulders draws the eye to my long, narrow chin, to my deep-set brown eyes, and my high cheekbones.
Behind me, he clasps his hands in admiration of his good work, and I offer him a warm smile.
“Thank you, Jean. It’s lovely.”
Dash returns, paper in hand. “I’ve compiled your list, Your Highness.”
I nod, standing and brushing my hands down my green satin bodice. An ache ripples up my arms as the fabric brushes the tender, burned skin, and I have to fight back a wince. “Good. But the first thing I must do is make myself seen. My people must know I am well. They must see that I am not diminished by Peter’s cruelty.”
Dash curtsies and snaps her fingers to the maids scurrying around the room. “Gather the other ladies-in-waiting. Her High
ness wishes to take a formal stroll through the palace.”
Once my entire entourage arrives, we set out. Every move is agony, every step like sandpaper on my skin as the dress brushes my legs, yet I conceal it, forcing my mind past the pain. Thinking of the bath helps, distracts me from the discomfort. First, we take a stroll through the gardens, the brilliant fountains spitting water high into the air as we pass by, creating a cool mist on my face. Then we move to the council chambers, where I greet several of the higher nobility, each of whom is elated to see me so undamaged. We attend a picnic lunch in the open air balcony, and then I make an appearance in the throne room. Pausing outside to be announced, I steady myself so that when the doors open, I stride in with my chin high, my shoulders back, and a hint of a smile on my face as I glide past the assembly. Peter is sitting on the throne, looking half asleep until he sees me, then he rights himself, glaring in my direction. I approach, curtsying to him briefly before taking my spot at his side. Neither of us speaks, but the chill between us is unmistakable. Finally, after several minutes of listening to Lord Grey make his case for adding troops to the western border, Peter yawns.
“I cannot spare forces at the moment. I am readying my invasion force to leave within the week.”
Lord Grey’s eyes shift to me, and then to his own feet. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“I have men to spare,” I say loudly. Peter swings his head in my direction, but I don’t spare him a look. “I have two dozen Russian Imperial soldiers, displaced by the new house guard, and given to me by my husband as my personal guard. They may lack some traits found in His Highness’ Holstein soldiers, but I think they will serve you well in the protection of your lands.”
Lord Grey looks up, as if waiting in fear of Peter’s reprisal. I swing my chin toward Peter, silently challenging him with my expression. “It would not do to let one of our lords fear for the borders of his own land. Don’t you agree, Peter?”
Queen of Always Page 10
