“I wonder if the Romanovs—they’re your royalty, aren’t they?—carry sidearms to parties.”
“It is war.”
“And yet I find myself woefully unprepared for the battle before me.” A half smile curved his full mouth in the manner of a man who knew precisely what he was about.
The confidence sent a tremor through Svetlana as she met him head-on. Somewhere across the room the balalaika’s strings trembled as the dancers spun in colorful whirls.
“What battle might that be?”
“One of intrigue.” Placing his arms on the table, he leaned forward to catch the candlelight glowing in the center of his eyes. The heart of a flame. “No matter how often I try to dispense myself of it, the allure returns me to the frontline time and again. I’ll be honest. I don’t know if I’m winning or losing.”
Svetlana danced around the flame, refusing to be captured by it. “Perhaps you’ve already lost.”
“Oh, no. It’s just getting started.”
“I should only wage war if the odds are in my favor.”
The smile gained full control of his lips, tilting them up at both ends. “Diminished odds for impossible causes are my weakness.”
“Some call that an honorable pursuit.”
“Honorable? No. A challenge. The greater the challenge, the greater the reward.”
She hiked a disinterested eyebrow that belied the fluttering in her heart. “What reward do you have in mind for this battle of intrigue?”
“I’m still deciding, but it’ll be worth the patience.” His gaze lingered on her, allowing the words to settle deep inside her. Given enough time they might take root. That she could not allow.
“Dr. MacCallan. Marquess, or whatever you wish to be called—”
“Wynn.”
“I think it best—” A sequined hip swung into her, knocking her practically onto Wynn’s lap. He steadied her, but not before her lips came dangerously close to grazing his neck. He smelled even better at this proximity. She jerked upright in her chair and smoothed her skirt before her hands could tremble. “Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive when a lady falls into my arms.” A charming quip for every situation. The flame in his eyes warmed to pure gold. “I very much wanted to escort you tonight, but I hope the carriage eased your troubles.”
“It was very thoughtful for you to think of us in that way. We are grateful.”
His brow creased. “We?”
“My mother insisted on attending with me.” Svetlana inclined her head to where her mother lounged in Sheremetev’s booth guzzling wine and preening like a peacock too long displaced from her court of honor. Some things never changed.
Wynn followed her gaze. “Ah, I see your mother got the flower I sent you.”
“It was lovely.” Svetlana touched the spot on her gown where she would’ve pinned the flower, then quickly brushed at it. Did she imagine him wooing her? Certainly not. “I wanted to correct the misunderstanding, but that often leads to greater troubles, and Mama is rather—”
“Difficult?”
“Unchangeable.”
Wynn turned back to her, expression softening. “I’m almost glad you’re not wearing it. You would shame any rose daring to call itself lovely.”
This man and his charm!
As the dancers took their bow, a parade of chilled buckets filled with champagne, trays loaded with food, and stacks of cigarettes in silver cases arrived at their table with Leonid leading the grand procession just in time to save her. The atmosphere, having grown densely warm over the past several minutes, eased.
“Enjoy party, da? Eat, eat.” Leonid lifted a tray lid to expose a mountain of deep red and passed it under Wynn’s nose. “Delicious.”
“Is that pickled beets?” Wynn’s questioning gaze lifted to Svetlana.
She shrugged, sending her blousy sleeve sliding down. “Pickle everything.”
Hesitating under Leonid’s waiting eye, Wynn forked a single beet and tucked it into his mouth. His expression shifted as he chewed and swallowed, followed by a quick gulp of champagne.
“I’ve never had beets prepared that way.”
“You honorary Russian now. Eat beets and cabbage. Drink vodka.” Leonid tried pushing a glass of vodka into Wynn’s hands.
“No, thank you. Have to stay sharp in case I’m called to operate, but in the meantime allow me to present something to you.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Wynn pulled out a small package wrapped in gauze and tied with twine. “Sorry about the wrapping. I couldn’t find proper gifting paper, but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed to your name day celebration. Which I’m still not clear about.”
“I named after saint. Anointed day on calendar he has. His day. My day. It same. Like birthday.” Leonid tore off the gift wrapping and howled with delight at the bullet cartridge in his palm. “Is mine?”
Wynn nodded. “I found it on the footpath behind you. Thought you might like a souvenir. Many of the soldiers do when they’re wounded.”
“Soldiers see enemy across line, no back of alley.” Words steely, Leonid’s fingers curled over the bullet. “They pay.”
“Do you know who attacked you?”
“Nyet, but soon. No have crazy streets like Moscow, or Petrograd, or Novgorod. Papochka bring peace here now.” Leonid’s expression softened as he patted Svetlana’s hand. “No Bolsheviks here, Angel. Trust people, da? Trust me.”
A look dawned across Wynn’s face as he settled back in his chair and gazed at her. She glanced away as he probed into her, overturning truths she wished to remain hidden and safe.
“He is here! Here is famous surgeon saving my son’s life.” Sheremetev barreled through the throng with thick arms spread wide and switching to English for Wynn’s sake. Anyone not coherent enough to leap from his path was knocked out by his rotund belly. Seizing Wynn by the shoulders, he hauled him to his feet and into a hug that could have cracked ribs. “Owe you everything. Tell me, what I do for you? I get anything for show appreciation. Name it only.”
“Your son alive is all the gratitude I need, sir.”
“Englishmen too modest. Come, come. Accept humble token.” Sheremetev snapped his fingers and a finely wrapped box appeared in his fleshy palm. “For you. It great insult to refusals.”
It was a Fabergé egg made of glossy emerald and gold filigree. Inside was a miniature of St. Basil’s Cathedral in dazzling colors of sapphire, ruby, turquoise, tourmaline, and diamond. Wynn stared in stunned silence.
“I think he likes.” Sheremetev thumped him on the back to the crowd’s roar of laughter. “A toast! My son Mikhail Leonid on name day. To man who saved life, and to angel who shining between them. Na Zdorovye!”
“Spasibo,” Wynn managed. The drunken audience cheered with delight at his Russian. An easy crowd to please.
Sheremetev shifted his attention to Svetlana, causing the orbit of onlookers to mimic him. “And for you, our dear princess, whatever heart’s desire will be wish to grant.”
As with any diplomatic service, she’d keep first introductions modest. To request his help now would be a hand overplayed. Such entreaties required a delicacy of timing. “Sir, your kindness and hospitality are more than enough. Please do not think on it again.”
“I must think on it, be assured. For own good.” Tweaking her sleeve so the beads jangled together, he disappeared into the haze of vodka bottles and cigarettes. Leonid trailed at his heels.
Svetlana eased a breath out. She’d done it. One step closer to safety.
The crowd bumped back to their tables jabbering incoherently over the music, leaving her and Wynn alone once more. Alone with their prize platter of beets.
“I do believe you’ve firmly ingratiated yourself into the White émigrés’ society. Do not be surprised to find requests for house calls from them,” she said.
“They’ll be sorely disappointed to find I’m not a general practitioner.”
“It matters not. By tomorrow morning you wil
l achieve near-saint status.”
“I’d settle for a dance with you.” Smoothing his face to one of grave solemnity, he bowed and held out his hand. “My dear princess, might you honor me with this waltz that has finally played to a rhythm my feet can comprehend?”
A waltz was difficult to resist and one of her favorites, a reminder of days filled with grace and elegance. It had nothing whatsoever to do with him or the way he looked in evening dress. Or so she told herself. “A pleasure, Marquess.”
Taking her hand, he hesitated with the Fabergé egg in his other hand while sizing up his jacket pocket.
“It’s quite safe on the table. No one in this entire room would dare touch it under Sheremetev’s protection.”
Placing the egg in the center of the table, Wynn guided her to the dance floor and she once more found herself in his arms. This time his palm was warm against hers.
“Quite a party. Are all Russian get-togethers like this?”
“Truthfully, I have never entered a place such as this. It is as if they have forgotten the war exists outside.”
“The extravagance is a wee bit surprising, but then again these Sheremetevs don’t seem to do things in half measures. Still, it makes one wonder.” He looked around with a slight frown puckering his forehead. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I believe so.”
“Not worried about the Bolsheviks, are you?” Svetlana’s hand slipped in his. He caught it and held tight, forcing her attention to him. “Is that why you won’t trust me? I might be the enemy?”
Memories of that red night with Petrograd burning around her and screams renting the streets flashed through her mind rapidly as gunfire. The aftermath of horror, of starving, of freezing, of hiding among beasts to avoid capture snapped at her heels. Always the same nightmare relived each time she closed her eyes.
“You don’t understand. You weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t, but I can promise—”
“You cannot commit promises on things you know nothing about. Your world is of sterile hospitals, treating patients, and a home tucked safely on an island across a channel from war. This is not your world. These, the White émigrés, we are not your people. I am grateful for all you’ve done, truly, and I’m glad Leonid was able to express his gratitude for you saving his life, but you should take your leave after tonight.”
He had the gall to look not the least bit taken aback. “And miss the opportunity to become the premier physician to the fleeing nobles of Russia? Not likely.”
“This is nothing to jest about. You do not belong here. Please see to your priorities elsewhere.”
“Rather snobbish of you.”
“Do not make this more difficult than need be. You have your place as I have mine. I see no reason for our paths to cross again. After this evening we will say goodbye.” It was for the best. It had to be. Her life was without certainty, a position she despised. She would not allow a man, a near stranger, to rock her further from the shaky ground upon which she hovered, and Wynn MacCallan came at her with every ability to distract her focus.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No. It means to refuse or decline. You’re familiar with the term, yes? Must be a shock when you’ve never been on the receiving end of such a preposterous notion.” He had the nerve to wink. Right there on the dance floor surrounded by dozens of people.
“You mock me.” She tried to pull away, but he held fast.
“Only because you make things much more difficult than need be.” He pulled her closer until his face was inches from hers, and she could see the soft dent in his full bottom lip. “Give me a chance.”
Svetlana hesitated, caught somewhere between the soft look of his lip, the persuasive charm in his eye, and an instinct of protection holding her back. “I—”
Crash!
Cymbals clashed, stopping the music as Sheremetev hauled himself onto the bandstand. Sweat dripped from his pale face as his diminutive eyes skittered around the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Unspeakable horror has struck our beloved motherland.” A telegram shook in his hand. “Tsar Nicholas and his family have been executed. The Imperial family is dead!”
Chapter 7
An incision on the left side of the chest exposed the beating heart. Wynn angled his head to see where the slug had entered, but after a moment of gentle probing, the bullet refused to be located.
“Where’s it gone?” he muttered.
“Right ventricle or passed to the spine?” Gerard offered as he stood opposite the operating table.
Wynn shook his head. “Not possible with the trajectory of the entrance wound. Or based on the X-ray findings. Let me see that shot again.”
A nurse scrambled to put the X-ray on the light board. A fuzzy black image of bone, organs, and cavities flickered. Barely out of its infancy, this new technology in medical diagnosis was a miraculous gift to surgeons. Countless were the lives saved by its internal depictions, a view once reserved for the Creator alone.
Glancing from the X-ray to Harkin’s exposed heart, attempting to merge the two images together in his mind, Wynn’s frustration mounted. He worked his fingertips over the organ. Smooth muscle, bumpy interventricular artery and cardiac vein, and aortic arch. No bullet.
“It’s not here.”
“What do you mean? Of course it is. The X-ray shows it. Unless Harkin decided to perform his own surgery that we don’t know about since the images were taken.”
“It’s hiding.” Instinct nudged. Wynn rationalized the possibilities and outcomes, but intuition wouldn’t be denied. “Breathing status?”
The anesthesiologist checked the gas apparatus that kept the patient sedated before taking his pulse. “Steady, Doctor.”
“Stand by. I’m going to rotate the heart for a posterior examination.”
Gerard fumbled a pair of forceps. They bounced off the floor and skittered across the room. “You can’t do that! It’s impossible.”
“It’s the only recourse to finding the bullet.”
“Doctor MacCallan.” Gerard took a shaky breath and lowered his voice. “Wynn. You’ll kill him.”
He might, but he also might save his life. The risk was worth it. “Stand by for rotation.”
Clearing his mind of the assaulting doubt and apprehension, Wynn focused on the life-sustaining piece as it beat in time with the clock on the wall. His own heart calmed to follow the pace, its steady rhythm narrowing the room and all its distractions to a single moment captured in his hands. The familiar comfort of knowledge quietly settled within him. He knew what he was doing, and moreover, knew what needed to be done.
Turning Harkin’s heart in minuscule fractions, he slipped his fingers around to the posterior side and closed his eyes, blocking out visual distractions. The mind often worked best in darkness as it was forced to rely on truth and not vision’s desensitization. The inferior vena cava carrying deoxygenated blood from the lower half of the body into the right atrium. Pulmonary veins carrying oxygenated blood from the lungs. Right ventricle. Left ventricle. A bump.
Wynn’s eyes flew open. He ran his finger over it again.
A smooth cylinder. The bullet.
“It’s here. Lodged between the posterior left and right ventricle. Angle the lamp here. Doctor Byeford, take the forceps while I hold the heart steady.” A small gag brought Wynn’s head up to Gerard’s pale face. “If you’re going to be sick, there’s a bucket in the corner.”
“I’m a surgeon, not a green-nosed VAD. I’ll hold. You extract.”
Gripping the forceps, Wynn slowly withdrew the obstruction from its hiding place and held it up to the light.
“There you are, bonny beastie.” A slug from a German 8mm Mauser rifle. He’d pulled out thousands of them since the start of the war, yet it never failed to amaze him the amount of pain a single body could endure. Nor the amount of horror a human could inflict upon another. How senseless was war in its incessant dri
ve to destruction. If the human race could see the wonders that composed their bodies, the intricacies of veins, the precise perfection of the humerus in its rotating cuff, or the delicacy of a heart pumping, they would not be so quick to sacrifice themselves at the altar of fevered battle. Sheer waste.
He dropped the bullet into a sterile dish the nurse held and then the forceps into another.
“Breathing dropping,” the anesthesiologist said.
Words no surgeon wanted to hear.
“Heart stopped.”
Even worse.
“Stand clear.” Wynn waved back the flap of nurses and positioned himself over the patient’s heart once more. Every fiber of his being tuned to the absent heartbeat.
“Begin manual resuscitation.” He gently massaged. One. Two. Three. Nothing. Again. One. Two. Three. Nothing. Wynn gritted his teeth, refusing the well of panic. He hadn’t given in to it before and he wouldn’t start now. One. Two. Three. “Come on, laddie. Don’t go out on me in front of the nurses. Bad cricket, that.”
Sweat puckered his brow. One. Two. Three. Not Harkin. Not after Wynn had given the man his solemn oath of care. It was a vow given on the rarest occasion as it benefited no one but a patient’s peace of mind and set the surgeon to a not-always-possible standard of achievement. A momentary lapse of weakness, or perhaps a sense of reassuring himself in the dangerous endeavor, and the vow hung suspended like a thread of hope between patient and surgeon, ready to be severed at the hand of Fate.
Fate would not sever them now.
Massage. One. Two. Three.
A pulse rippled through the heart. Another. Life thumped into a steady beat.
Wynn let out a shaky breath.
“Heart rate climbing. Breathing maintained. Closing into normal,” announced the anesthesiologist in a shaky tone of his own.
Wynn glanced across the table to where Gerard stood immobilized. “Ready for closure, Doctor?”
Gerard blinked several times at the pulsing heart within reach of his fingertips and finally lifted his gaze to Wynn as a nurse placed sterilized packing gauze in his hand.
“Ready on your count.”
The Ice Swan Page 10