The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  “Where were you supposed to take the princess?”

  The Russian sent him a cocky smirk. “Petrov has her, does he?”

  Seb punched him in the stomach, and the man doubled over with a surprised “oof.” The chains around his wrists prevented him from retaliating. Seb bent and whispered in his ear, ignoring the rancid smell of the man’s unwashed body.

  “I’ll ask you one more time. Where. Is. The. Princess?”

  The Russian shook his head stubbornly, and Seb let out a sigh of irritation. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned to Ben and Alex, who were flanking the door. “If he’s not going to tell us anything, there’s no need to keep him alive. Agreed?”

  Alex merely shrugged, going along with Seb’s bluff, and Ben did the same. Seb sent up a grateful prayer for having such intelligent friends. Both of them knew he’d never actually kill a man in custody, however great the provocation, but the Russian didn’t know that.

  The Cossack let out a surprised gasp. “What? You can’t shoot me.”

  “Oh, I can,” Seb growled. “Here in England, lords like us can do pretty much anything we like. If you die, I doubt we’ll get more than a slap on the wrist. In fact, Sir Nathaniel will probably thank me for not burdening Newgate with another inmate.”

  Ben gave a dry chuckle. “He’s doing you a favor, believe me. I’ve spent some time in Newgate. Death is better.”

  Alex gave an amused snort.

  Seb withdrew his pistol, a lead ball, and a powder flask from his jacket pocket, and proceeded to load the weapon with brisk efficiency.

  The Russian gave a strangled, disbelieving cry and retreated to the far corner of the cell, his hands raised in front of him in a paltry defense. “Wait!”

  Seb poured an exact measure of powder into the pistol’s pan and shook his head as if confused. “I just don’t understand why you’d stay loyal to someone like Petrov. Do you think he cares about you? He’s left you in here to rot for the last week, hasn’t he?” He paused to let that sink in, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “If it’s any consolation, it’ll be quick. I’m an excellent shot.”

  “The best,” Ben chimed in. “You should have seen him in Portugal. He could hit a target at two hundred yards with a wicked crosswind.”

  “Thank you.” Seb sent him a dry nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the prisoner. “Now, would you prefer the head or the heart?” He lifted the pistol, pulled back the hammer, and levelled it smoothly. His arm didn’t waver an inch.

  “His ship!” the Russian shouted desperately.

  Seb tilted his head. “I’m listening.”

  “Petrov wanted me to take her back to his ship,” the Russian continued quickly. “The Suvarov. It’s moored at Blackwall docks. That’s all I know.”

  Seb lowered the pistol. The Russian slid down the wall in relief, and Seb took a savage satisfaction in the wet stain that spread across the front of the man’s breeches as he pissed himself. He glanced at his friends. “Let’s go.”

  Five minutes later, they were heading east along Piccadilly as quickly as the evening traffic would allow. Seb cursed every slow-moving carriage and late-night reveler who crossed his path.

  A pounding need to hurt, to punish Petrov, coursed through him, along with a terrible spike of fear. His lack of control over this situation made him want to scream. He had to get to Anya. To protect her. God, she’d already braved and suffered so much in her life.

  “Why a ship?” Alex asked as they slowed for a barrel-filled brewer’s wagon. “Do you think he’s planning to take her back to Russia?”

  Seb growled at the mere thought. “Maybe. He wants to marry her. Not just for her money, but to guarantee her silence.”

  “That’s it, then,” Ben said. “Since they’re not Church of England, he can’t wed her here. I bet he needs a Russian Orthodox priest to make it legal.”

  “Maybe he’s found one in London,” Alex suggested. “Maybe he has one on board? That’s what I’d do if I—”

  Seb snapped, “Stop talking and ride.”

  The thought of Anya married to Petrov made him want to break things. Bones, mainly. She belonged with him, damn it. He’d rather die than see her with another man, let alone a blackmailing bastard like that. If anyone was going to marry her, it would bloody well be him.

  A sense of calm acceptance slid over him as he registered the truth of that thought.

  He wanted to marry her.

  He wanted her in whatever guise she chose to adopt, whether it be princess, dowager’s companion, or courtesan.

  He would rescue her from Petrov, prove he was worthy of her, and ask for her hand again.

  True, she’d refused him once, but his first proposal hadn’t been the best, had it? In fact, now that he thought back on it, he hadn’t actually proposed. He’d just told her they were expected to marry. No woman wanted to hear that. Especially not one as stubborn and determined to forge her own destiny as Anya. No wonder she’d turned him down.

  He’d do a better job next time. He’d tell her all the reasons he wanted to marry her. Like the fact that he loved the way she challenged him. That he loved her strength and her arrogance, her humor and her wit. Not to mention that he’d never met anyone he desired more. One night with her had merely whetted his appetite. He wanted her in every way he could think of, and a hundred more besides.

  “If that bastard hurts one hair on her head, he’s a dead man,” Seb growled to nobody in particular.

  He kicked his heels to Eclipse’s sides and remembered the first time he’d ridden into battle for her. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he’d met his very own Waterloo on Hounslow Heath, in the shape of a lying, irresistible Russian blueblood.

  Alex sat straighter in the saddle as they finally neared Blackwall docks. “Hoi. You remember that Russian who was killed? The other Orlov? The tavern where it happened is just over there. Ten to one Petrov had something to do with it.”

  Fear stabbed Seb’s chest like shards of ice, and he breathed a plea to the frigid night air.

  Hold on, Anya. I’m coming.

  Chapter 35.

  Anya was roused by a sharp slap on her cheek. She opened her eyes and peered groggily out of the coach window. They had come to a stop. She could see the blurry lights and the swinging sign of a tavern, hear the whores lounging in the shadows shouting obscene comments, the catcalls from the drunks who milled around. Her heart sank. This was not a good area.

  Vasili caught her arm and pulled her out of the carriage, and she stumbled on the step, still dazed.

  The huge, hulking shape of a ship loomed above her, and she frowned up in confusion. She must be at the docks. She squinted to read the painted nameplate on the side of the vessel: Suvarov.

  Trust Vasili to have commandeered a ship named after a famous Russian military hero, she thought bitterly. Even in his choice of vessel, he craved reflected glory. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Her cheek hurt.

  The dark shapes of two men were visible up on the deck, one at each end of the ship, and a huge figure in the distinctive fur-banded hat and long overcoat of a Cossack stood guard at the bottom of the gangplank. Anya immediately discounted him as a potential source of help. His expression was blank, with not a hint of interest in her plight.

  Vasili hustled her forward. Her legs were shaking so badly, she could barely stagger up the inclined planks, but the weight of the paring knife in the pocket of her jacket gave her courage. At least Vasili hadn’t searched her while she was unconscious. Small mercy.

  They reached the deck. Anya slid her hand into her pocket and jerked away from Vasili’s grip.

  “Where’s Elizaveta?”

  She pulled the kitchen knife from the pocket and brandished it in front of her, painfully aware of how ridiculous a weapon it must appear.

  Vasili laughed in genuine amusement. “Truly? You think to threaten me with that?” He reached behind him, pulled a pistol from beneath his jacket, and pointed it directly at her chest
. “Drop it.”

  With a silent curse, she allowed the pathetic weapon to clatter onto the deck.

  Vasili’s gaze flicked to her skirts, at the silvery material visible beneath the oversize jacket. “Now remove that coat.”

  Anya shrugged out of Oliver’s jacket. The cool night air raised goose bumps on her skin, but when Vasili’s greedy gaze slithered over her exposed chest, she shuddered in revulsion.

  He smirked. “I see you’re dressed for the occasion. How fortunate.” With the gun still trained on her, he used his left hand to open the door set into the space beneath the upper deck. “Into the cabin.”

  With no choice but to obey, Anya lifted her chin high and swept inside. She glanced around frantically. A table for maps filled the center of the room, with a padded bench built along one wall, but her attention went immediately to the doorway at the far end. Elizaveta, her hands bound in front of her, was seated on a small cot bed.

  She stumbled to her feet with a choked cry of relief. “Anya! Oh, God.”

  Anya rushed forward. Elizaveta’s hands were crushed awkwardly between them, but Anya caught her friend in her arms for a joyous hug.

  “Oh no!” Elizaveta gave a shuddering sob. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

  Anya stroked her hair, noting her friend’s reddened eyes and split lip with a wave of anger. Vasili, or one of his men, had struck her too.

  “Shh. It’s all right. I’m so glad to see you safe. Did he hurt you?”

  “Vasili? He merely hit me a few times to say hello.”

  Anya glared over her shoulder at Vasili, who’d stationed himself by the door. She tugged at the leather cord that bound her friend’s wrists. “Untie this at once.”

  He shook his head. “Not until after we’re wed.” He sent her a mocking glance. “I’m not having her hit me over the head with anything this time. She can be a witness.”

  Anya gazed around the cabin for something—anything—to use as a weapon. A spirit lamp hung from the rafters from a bent nail, but it was too high for her to reach. The map on the tabletop had been pinned at the four corners; perhaps she could stab him with one of those little tacks?

  Completely at ease, Vasili shrugged out of his greatcoat. “I have a priest ready to marry us,” he said with a chilling smile. “Father Barukov’s come all the way from St. Petersburg.”

  Anya’s stomach turned over in dismay. When she’d seen the ship, she’d assumed Vasili meant to take her back to Russia and perform the ceremony there. This was a disaster.

  She clutched at her skirts—and felt the hard shape of a glass vial beneath her fingers. Her heart missed a beat. She’d forgotten Lagrasse’s sleeping potion. If only there was some way to make Vasili drink the stuff.

  She pasted a conciliatory smile on her face and took a step forward. Vasili eyed her warily.

  “Very well,” she said calmly. “I’m not such a fool that I can’t see when I’m beaten.”

  Behind her, Elizaveta made a wordless sound of protest, but Anya shook her head.

  “It’s true. Nobody’s coming to save us, Elizaveta, and I have no desire to be manhandled any more than I have been already. We might as well make the best of the situation.”

  Vasili’s brows rose as he fought incredulity. “You’ll marry me? Without protest?”

  Anya gave a delicate shrug. “What good would protesting do? If all those years in the Russian court taught me anything, it’s to be pragmatic. You wouldn’t be my first choice of husband, Petrov, but we need never see one another once this is done. Get your priest. Let’s get this over with.”

  Vasili still looked suspicious at her capitulation, but he turned and stepped out onto the deck.

  As soon as Anya heard him turn the key in the lock, she rushed over to the bottle of vodka she’d spied on a side table. She tugged the cork out with her teeth, poured two large shots, and divided the meagre contents of the mandrake potion equally between the two glasses.

  “What’s that?” Elizaveta whispered.

  “A sleeping draught. I can’t be sure which one Vasili will take. If necessary, I’ll drink it too, to allay his suspicions.”

  A shudder of disquiet ran through her as she remembered what Sebastien had said. She had no idea of the proper dose; a few drops had been enough to render Stoke and Alvanley unconscious back at the Tricorn. But they’d both been near-insensible with drink anyway. Wolff had said it would take longer to work on someone who was sober, but how long was that? Ten minutes? Half an hour?

  There were more than a few drops in each glass. What if it proved fatal?

  Anya let out a steadying breath and faced that possibility. There was no hope of rescue; Sebastien had no idea where she was. Was death really preferable to marring Vasili? Yes. She had no doubt that he intended to dispose of her soon enough anyway, through some tragic “accident” that would eliminate the threat of exposure once and for all. She could only be thankful that he’d decided to wed her first—to get his hands on her money—rather than just kill her immediately. Hopefully his greed would prove his downfall.

  She picked up both glasses and went over to glance through the window of the cabin.

  Vasili stood over an open hatchway where a set of steps led belowdeck. “Father Barukov, you may attend to us now,” he called down.

  Muffled footsteps came from below and a cloaked and hooded figure shuffled up from the opening. He wore the formal vestments of an Orthodox priest. From his stooped shoulders and slow gait, he appeared old and rather frail, weighted down by his clerical regalia: a dark, ankle-length robe with a white surcoat lavishly embroidered in gold. He carried a worn, leather-bound Bible in one hand and two thin circlets of laurel leaves tied with a white ribbon in the other.

  Anya’s heart began to pound. Those were the “crowns” he would hold above their heads during the traditional Russian marriage ceremony.

  The key clicked in the lock, and Vasili entered with the priest. Anya tried to see the man’s face, to see if there was even the slightest hint of compassion or hope of reprieve, but the hood of his robe obscured his features; she caught only a glimpse of dark beard.

  Without even acknowledging her or Elizaveta, he placed the crowns on the chart table and started to flick through the pages of the Bible, searching for the correct place. His hands, Anya noticed, were not those of an old man, all liver-spotted and veined. They were those of someone younger, with long fingers and neatly cut nails. A wave of impotent fury scorched her. He was clearly another of Petrov’s acolytes, either bribed or coerced into service. He would doubtless be selectively deaf, like Wolff. There would be no help from that quarter.

  She offered one of the glasses of tainted vodka to Vasili. “Let’s not completely ignore tradition, Petrov. We should make a toast to a long and happy marriage.”

  Vasili’s lips curled at her dry tone, but he took the glass from her and raised it to his mouth. Anya watched him closely to see if he would drink, but when he hesitated, she lifted her own glass, tapped the rim against his own, and said, “Za zdarovje.”

  To his health. And hers.

  God help her.

  She tipped back her head and swallowed the entire shot in one gulp, gasping at the icy fire that flooded down her throat.

  At least if she died, she’d be with Dmitri. And her parents. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  Through watering eyes she saw Vasili swallow his own drink, and a spike of triumph warmed her as much as the vodka had done. Now all she had to do was stall long enough until they either fell asleep or died.

  What a happy thought.

  She turned toward the chart table under the guise of needing somewhere to place her empty glass and put it down next to the pin holding the map. Using her skirts to conceal the movement, she tugged the pin free and stepped closer to the priest. She might as well make some attempt to sway him.

  “I am Princess Anastasia Denisova,” she said levelly. “Cousin to the tsar. Whatever Petrov is paying you to do this, I’ll double it.�
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  The click of the hammer on Vasili’s pistol drew her attention. “That’s enough, Anya,” he said pleasantly. He pointed the pistol at Elizaveta, who’d taken a seat in the corner of the cabin. “You’ll say the vows, or I’ll put a bullet through your friend’s head.”

  Elizaveta whimpered and ice slithered through Anya’s veins as hopelessness overwhelmed her. Damn Vasili. A pin was no match for a bullet.

  Why wasn’t the sleeping potion working? Apart from a pleasant glow in her stomach from the vodka, she felt nothing out of the ordinary. And she was smaller than Vasili. Since they’d taken roughly the same dose, shouldn’t she feel the effects of the drug before him?

  He stepped forward to stand on the priest’s other side. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  A strange calm settled over her. Would Sebastien care if she married Vasili? Would he avenge her honor? He’d said he’d never fight a duel for any woman. Petty squabbles, he’d called them. But perhaps—

  She closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle.

  Chapter 36.

  “Petrov!”

  The enraged bellow echoed from the dockside, and Anya’s heart turned over in her chest. Twin arrows of joy and terror pierced her. “Sebastien,” she breathed.

  “I’m coming for you, you bastard!”

  The crack of a pistol rent the night, followed by a series of shouts and a splash as someone ditched the Cossack guarding the gangway into the river.

  “Anya!”

  Heavy boots pounded up the gangplank. The two guards on deck shouted a warning and a barrage of masculine shouts and the crashing of wood ensued.

  Vasili cursed, and Elizaveta let out a squeal of fright as something—or someone—forcibly struck the cabin door. The wood shrieked in protest, but the iron latch held. The sickening sound of fists connecting with bone, the crunch of something that might have been a nose breaking, and a bellow of pain followed. Twin flashes of light pierced the darkness beyond the cabin window and the crack of pistols followed almost instantaneously.