Emma gasped, shock and outrage flooding through her, paralyzing her with cold, as a short but heavyset man pulled her closer. His breath was hot on her face, reeking of onions and ale.
“A pretty pigeon, eh, landed right in me own nest,” he snickered, leering at her. His hand tightened on her arm, an iron clasp that bruised her soft skin.
“How dare you!” She yanked hard on her arm, trying to pull away. Her mind felt covered in some haze, quite unable to move from the joy of her day of freedom to this. No one had ever grabbed her in all her life! If they had, her uncle would have shot them.
But her uncle was not here now. She was all alone, deep in a dark alley with a ruffian. Emma had never before felt so foolish.
“Release me at once, you—you pla-hoy.” she cried out, using a word she had sometimes heard Natasha say in moments of frustration.
“Ooh, a foreign pigeon,” the man said with a nasty laugh. “And I wager that the pretty pigeon has a pretty purse, too.” He pulled her closer, ever closer.
Emma realized there was only one thing left to do. She filled her lungs with air and screamed. She screamed and screamed, as loud and as long as she could.
The man swore and clamped his dirty hand over her mouth, but it was too late for him. There was a quick blur of movement in the corner of Emma’s eye, and her attacker landed flat on his back, torn away from her by some unseen force. A tall figure loomed over him and delivered the coup de grace of a right uppercut to the jaw.
The vile man’s eyes rolled up inside his head, and he lay still. He’d hardly known what had happened to him.
Emma stared down at the violent scene, dizzy with the speed of it all. One moment she had been utterly terrified, and then—rescue. Just in a second. She was giddy with the fear, the relief and the heady violence of it all. She pressed her hand to her mouth to hold in an hysterical laugh.
Her rescuer stood up and turned to face her. “Are you quite all right, miss? Did this villain hurt you?”
Emma stared up, and up, into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and suddenly her giddiness felt—different. Her head spun, and she fell back against the wall, unable to stand upright an instant longer. Her legs felt like water.
“You are hurt!” the man said, his voice rough with concern. He caught her arm to support her. “Only say the word, and I’ll kill the ruffian here and now. Not a quick death, either, but a slow and painful one.”
She just gazed up at him. She knew she must appear the veriest lackwit, but she could not seem to help herself. All the poise and grace that had been trained and drilled into her since she was a tiny child fled when she saw him.
He was handsome enough, to be sure, tall and fashionably lean, with rich, dark brown hair that waved over his sun-browned brow and those very blue eyes. Yet mere handsomeness surely could not account for her strange reaction to his presence. She saw handsome men every day. Sir Jeremy Ashbey was a veritable Apollo, and of her own station besides. This man was obviously a tradesman of some sort, as he was dressed in a rough tweed coat, brown woolen trousers and a loosely-tied white neckcloth.
Yet, everything she had hoped to feel for Sir Jeremy and did not seemed to move through her when she looked up at her rescuer. A rich, wonderful warmth like the thickest cup of chocolate flowed over her, into her very veins, bringing a soft flush with it. She felt dizzy, as if she had just drunk a great quantity of champagne—or cheap ale. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to put her arms around him and bury her face in his neck. Her fingers quivered to touch his glossy hair, the dimple in his square, shadowed chin.
It was ridiculous, absurd! Quite unreal. She had just met him, had not even spoken to him. Indeed, all her powers of conversation seemed to have vanished. All she could concentrate on was the feel of his hand on her elbow. She knew that if he did not hold onto her, she would fall onto the filthy cobblestones.
“Are you hurt, miss?” he said again, his voice gentle.
“Oh, no,” she managed to gasp. “Not at all. How can I ever thank you, sir? You have surely saved my life!”
He tilted his head to one side, a puzzled frown suddenly forming between his glorious, sky-colored eyes.
Why was he looking at her so oddly all of the sudden? Had she spoken Russian or French instead of English? Was her face dirty, her dress mussed after her misadventure? She reached up to her hair, trying to push vagrant strands back into the plaited knot.
His brow cleared as suddenly as it had creased, and he smiled at her. It was like the warmth of the sun breaking from behind gray clouds at the end of a long Russian winter.
She smiled, too, and even heard a giggle break free from her lips. “Yes. I am very well.”
It was she. Jack could scarcely believe it, but there could never be two such ladies in all the world. Yet, what was she, a lady, a fair flower protected by the Russian court, doing in a dirty alleyway, dressed like a housemaid and, apparently, all alone. His mind reeled with the possibilities and came up empty, until he remembered his own apparel.
Perhaps the same sort of thing a viscount is doing dressed as a servant, he thought.
Lady Emma Weston, out for a bit of spying? Absurd! But if not, what was she truly up to? He glanced around to see if she was truly alone, or if her guards were with her. There was no one. He really ought to keep an eye on her—heaven only knew what could happen to a lady alone.
He just opened his mouth to ask her what in Hades she was up to, but she stopped him by reaching for his hand and cradling it tenderly in her two small, soft palms.
“Oh!” she murmured, bending her head to examine his hand closer. She stood so close that he could smell the lilac scent of her hair. “You are hurt.”
Jack was so bemused by her nearness that he scarcely heard her words, let alone felt any pain. “Hm?”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide, soft with concern. “Your hand is bleeding.” Her faint accent flowed over him like warm brandy or—or vodka.
Yes. Sharp, hot Russian vodka.
Jack grinned at his own flash of whimsy. He just couldn’t seem to help it; he was so rarely whimsical. This sprite of a snow princess must bring it out of him.
A small frown formed on her heart-shaped face as she saw his smile. “Are you—how do you say?—unhinged by the pain, sir?”
His grin widened. She was just too adorable. “I don’t feel any pain, miss.”
“How can you not? You are bleeding!” She bent her head again to examine the wound, a loose strand of her black-satin hair brushing his skin like the lightest, sweetest caress.
But the moment was spoiled when the ruffian at their feet moaned and stirred. She glanced down at him, her expression of tender concern transformed to one of deepest distaste. The ice maiden had returned. She turned to walk out of the alleyway, pulling Jack with her.
“Come,” she said. “We should be leaving now.”
“I certainly agree,” he answered, going along most willingly. “Where do you propose we go?”
“We must see to your hand.” She looked around until she saw an empty bench and drew him over to sit down beside her. Then she dug about in her reticule until she found an embroidered handkerchief, which she proceeded to wrap around his scraped knuckles.
Jack enjoyed her ministrations in silence for a long moment, listening to her soft, foreign murmurings. She was every bit as lovely as she had been at the reception, but without the trappings of her formal gown and rich jewels, she was no longer as remote as the moon, as he had fancied her. Her simple hairstyle and plain gray dress had much to do with that, of course, yet there was more. Her eyes, her skin, her very demeanor were transformed—they glowed and sparkled with life, with energy. But for all that, she still exuded a regal quality that could not be hidden.
How she thought she could fool everyone with her erect posture, her embroidered handkerchief, and the dainty kid half boots that peeped out from beneath her rough hem, Jack could not say. She was just fortunate that he was the one who had discovered h
er masquerade and not someone else—someone who would not scruple to reveal her. Or use her for his own ends.
He remembered how Mr. Thompson had emphasized how important it was that nothing happen to the foreign monarchs or their retinues while they were in England. It filled him again with a burning anger that someone would dare attack Lady Emma—and even an anger with Emma herself, for putting herself into such a vulnerable position.
These thoughts were quickly obscured by other sweeter ones, though. She was close to him, so close that he could lean his head the merest inch and take a surreptitious breath of her scented hair, brush his hand on her arm.
Delicious.
She finished tying off the knot in her handkerchief and gently patted his hand. “There!” she said, with a great air of satisfaction. “That is much better.” She peeked up at him through her sooty lashes, still keeping his hand in hers. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue. You were so very brave!”
For one moment, Jack was completely taken aback. She looked at him as no one had in a very long time, if ever—as if he had done something completely right, something courageous and fine. In his careful guise of carelessness, he had become so accustomed to his family and his old respectable friends looking at him with disapproval that he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her.
He had just done what his instincts told him to do, what his years on the battlefield had taught him. It was all so automatic; he had heard her screams, and his senses leapt into battle mode. But when she looked at him with her shining eyes, he felt maybe he was brave. Even if only for a moment, only for this one woman.
“It was nothing,” he answered. “I heard your scream, and I could hardly just stand there and let that villain attack you.”
“But other people must have heard me scream. You were the only one who came.”
“I was only the first to hear, I suppose.”
She shook her head adamantly. “No. You were brave, and I will not hear otherwise. You saved me! I only wish I could reward you properly.”
Properly? “Sitting here with you is all the reward I need,” he said, half-truthfully. A kiss added to the “reward” would not have come amiss, but since that seemed out of the realm of possibility, sitting here with her would have to suffice.
She gave him a smile, more brilliant than any of the diamonds in her tiara had been. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I am so glad. This has been the very best day of my life, and it would have been ruined if not for you.”
Jack leaned back on the bench, laying his arm along its rough wooden top until he could just feel the warmth of her shoulder on his fingertips. The endless crowds still streamed around them, a sea of merriment, yet he saw none of them. He saw only the woman beside him. “The best day of your life, eh? You must have a very dull existence, then, La…” He almost called her “Lady Emma,” but that would have been a great mistake. He wanted her to go on with this strange masquerade, to see what she would do with it. “—Lovely lady.”
She smiled at this compliment but then sighed and leaned back on the bench. “Sometimes my life is unimaginably dull.”
“Are you a lady’s maid, mayhap?” he asked. “Or perhaps you work in a milliner’s shop?”
“I”—she looked away from him, her slim fingers plucking at the edge of her shawl—”I am a maid. To one of the visiting Russian ladies.”
“So you are a Russian?”
“Da.” She flashed him an impish grin. “I fooled you with my so perfect English accent, didn’t I?”
Jack laughed. “Your accent is lovely. What is your name?”
“My name?” she said warily, her grin fading.
“You must have one. Even Russians have names, so I’m told.”
“I am”—her gaze darted past him, as if she was thinking quickly—”I am Tonya.”
“Tonya,” he murmured, wondering where she had come up with such a name. It was probably the name of some friend or servant of hers, but it felt soft and smooth on his tongue, like the strange strains of a gypsy violin. Tonya. It suited her. “That’s a very pretty name.”
“Thank you, sir. And what is your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes. Even Englishmen have them, I think.”
He laughed again, because she had trapped him with his own words. Truly he had laughed more in five minutes in her presence than he had in the last five years. “I’m Jack,” he told her, not wishing to place another falsehood between them. He could at least give her his true name.
“Jack,” she said slowly, as if trying out the name in her mouth, as he had hers. “I like that. It is very— resolute. And strong.”
“That’s me. Resolute Jack.” He thought that after all her years in Russia, she might not have the firmest grasp on the English language. But “resolute” was a far better adjective than any his family or friends—or enemies— might choose for him.
“And what do you do, Jack?” she ask.
“Do?”
“Yes. I am a lady’s maid, and you are…”
What was he? He wished he knew. He did know, however, that he didn’t wish this game to end, as it surely would if he told her the truth. “I am a—secretary.”
“This is your day off from your duties?”
“This day is—mine to do with as I wish.” And he found he wished only to share it with her, duty or no. If he were truly dutiful, he would march her right back to the Pulteney Hotel, but he could not. Not just yet.
“That is how I feel about this day, too,” she said. “It is mine to do with as I wish.”
A vendor went past them, carrying a huge tray and calling, “Fruit pies! Meat pies! Fresh and hot!”
Jack saw Lady Emma—or Tonya—give the tray a longing glance. “Would you care for a pie?”
“Oh, yes!” she said happily. Her face lit up at the offer of a pie as his former mistress’s would have over emeralds. “I want to try everything today.”
He stood up from the bench and offered her his arm. “Come along, then, Miss Tonya, and we shall see what the good man has to offer. Would you care for chicken or beef?”
“Both! And perhaps fruit, if he has some.” Her small hand slid neatly into the crook of his elbow, as if it was meant to go just there. “I am so glad we have met, Jack,” she said softly.
“So am I, Tonya. Indeed, so am I.” And he was. He had met the ice princess; now he saw the excited butterfly, ready to spread her wings.
Chapter Six
Emma chewed happily on her pie and studied her escort surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. She tried to be subtle, not to stare in a blatant or rude manner, but it was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. Jack was quite the most extraordinary—and puzzling—man.
He said he was a secretary and indeed he looked the part, in a well-cut but unstylish and faded tweed coat and plain neckcloth. His boots were polished yet worn. But Emma was trained to observe people, to be a perfect hostess and anticipate people’s needs. And though she sometimes tended to daydream at dull receptions and balls in order to survive them, she was also very well trained indeed.
Something about Jack rang false.
He did not appear like any servant she had ever seen, at least not any Russian one. His bearing was erect and strong, his shoulders straight, like the officers she had watched in the military review. He looked around them, always watching, always alert, his sky-blue gaze sharp. His light touch on her arm as he eased her through the crowds was steady, perfectly polite yet safely there in case she needed him.
She wondered about him. No, she more than wondered— she burned with curiosity. She wanted to know more about him, wanted to know everything.
But for now she was happy with what she had. Jack was quite handsome, and his smile made her insides feel warm and fluttery. He was willing to walk with her through the glories of the day. He treated her like an ordinary woman, a woman who could enjoy talking and flirting. It was what she had longe
d for, prayed for. She was not about to toss all that away by asking foolish questions. This time would be over all too quickly. She intended to enjoy it, to wring the last tiny bit of fun from it.
Emma ate the last bit of her pie, savoring the buttery taste of the crust on her tongue. Jack held out his handkerchief for her to wipe her fingers on.
“Thank you,” Emma murmured, taking the square of linen from him. It smelled of some sharp, grass-like cologne, and her fingertips touched the raised embroidery of a “J” worked in white thread.
After her fingers were clean, she slid it secretly into her apron pocket.
“Did you like your pie?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.
Emma wondered if he was amused by the fact that she was happily consuming every bit of food in sight. She decided she did not really care if he was, even though she wanted so much for him to think her attractive and elegant. For the first time in—well, in as long as she could remember, her stomach was happily full.
She gave him a blithe smile. “Very much. English food is so delicious.”
Jack laughed. “That is the first time I have ever heard that.”
“Do you not care for English food?”
“It is, er, filling, I suppose. But not what most people would call fine.”
Emma thought of the dishes her aunt’s supposedly French chef produced, covered with sauces, smothered with creams and wines. She would prefer a chicken pie any time. “I do not care. I like it.”
They had reached the edge of a small pond, where couples rowed across the still water and small children launched toy boats from the shore. Emma leaned back against the rough trunk of a tree to watch them, and Jack stood beside her, one arm braced near her head. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a lacy pattern on his dark hair and the sharp planes of his face.
“Tonya,” he said, but Emma did not really hear him. “Tonya!”
“Hm?” she asked, puzzled. Then she remembered she had impulsively given him the name of one of her aunt’s parlormaids. “Oh! Yes?”
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