She’d never witnessed this side of him, and while it terrified her, she saw the pain of an infested wound oozing from him. One he seemed unable to patch himself, and that difficulty most likely hurt him all the more.
“A blow has been delivered, Wynn. Several. Reeling from the shock is to be expected, but you cannot stay that way forever. At some point you need to pick the pieces back up and move on, otherwise it is a life half lived.”
The pleats of his kilt flared as he pivoted on his heel, dark shadows breaking the fall of blue moonlight. “And if this is the life I now choose?”
“I do not believe that. This is the life you’re wallowing in. A pathetic submission that is below your standards. You try to hide your misery, but I see it in the cracks of your smile. The dullness in your eyes where fire once shone. Even your banter has fallen flat of late.”
“No need to kick a man when he’s down,” he mumbled.
“I am not trying to kick you. I am trying to help you.”
“By pointing out everything I’m doing wrong?”
“By pointing out that you do not need to hide. Not from me.” She stepped in front of him. He flinched at her closeness but didn’t move. She took that as encouragement. If the truth was coming out, it might as well be all of it. “When we first met, trust was a nonnegotiable after the things I had been through. I feared for my life every second, jumping at the slightest noises, waiting for the black gloves to seize me in my bed at night. Then I met you. Kind, considerate, and always trying to make me smile all the while I eyed you with suspicion. I fought against it, but you earned my trust, and now I can rest knowing I’m safe. Because of you, Wynn. Will you honor me now with your trust?”
Pain still trembled in his eyes, but his waves of anger stilled. His shoulders sagged as he looked to the floor. “I don’t deserve you.”
“I know, but here we are.”
His gaze flickered up to catch her smile. He raised his hand and drew his thumb across her cheek and along her jaw. “I cannot stand to lose you, not now, but if you truly knew— If you truly knew, I fear you might think less of me. My pride as a man could not handle that, and with that confession you can see how fragile my ego is.” He tried to laugh, but there was no humor to be found in the admission.
“What is pride between us as long as there is trust?” She touched his hand, holding it to her cheek. “I wish to know all of you, as you have seen me. Even the fearful parts.”
He took a deep breath, summoning the words. “In Glasgow—”
“Pardon the intrusion, Your Graces, but the auction is about to begin.” Glasby stood in the doorway, polished shoes reflecting the moonlight. He’d kept to his impeccable white tie and black tails instead of donning a kilt.
Wynn raked another impatient hand through his hair, standing it up like quills. “Stall them. Bring out more wine and whisky if you have to. I need a moment with my wife.”
“I would, sir, but the duchess’s mother has other ideas.”
Dread flooded Svetlana, drowning all concern for what Wynn had been about to say. “What has she done?”
“It’s more what she’s threatening to do.” Glasby’s expression remained professionally bland. A credit in this unusual household. “Princess Ana wishes to make a speech. I believe she has sampled each of the bottles of scotch.”
“We need to stop her before she finds a captive audience.”
Wynn must have realized the state of his hair, for his hands flew to it, attempting to squash it back into a semblance of order. “How much damage can she do?”
“Do you remember that time you had to carry her from the carriage to the church in Paris? That was on one bottle of champagne.”
“I see your point.”
They hurried out of the solarium and into the Stone Hall where Svetlana’s mother stood three steps up on the grand staircase flapping her arms as if to entice the drawing crowd closer. Having declared it unnecessary to mourn for a man she’d never met, she’d dressed in green silk with emerald accessories liberally borrowed from Svetlana’s jewelry box. Jewelry Wynn had presented her with as duchess.
“Ladies and gentlemen, or in Russian we say damy i gospoda, welcome to Thorphill. Pardon, Thornhill. Home of the dukes of my son-in-law.” Mama smiled with the generous cheer of spirits. “I hope you all have been having a splendid time—I know I have—but there is one question I have for all of you. Why must it rain here so much? In Russia I do not recall it raining nearly as much. What you lack in pleasant weather you more than make up for in drink.” She tipped a crystal-cut tumbler to her red-painted lips.
Wynn covered the three steps in one long stride. “Thank you, Princess Ana. Always a delightful addition to any gathering.”
Mama elbowed him. “I wasn’t finished welcoming our guests.”
Wynn ignored her. “If everyone would like to grab a final glass before we start the auction, now is the time to do so. Otherwise, please be patient while the tallies are made. Remember that all of your generous proceeds will go toward new construction on a training center for education and work experience for those most affected by the war’s suffering.”
Applause rounded the room, echoing off the smooth stones that amplified it to thunder. Svetlana eased a tremulous pent-up breath. What a tremendous moment for their community, one she was so delighted to share with Wynn. A task they were taking on together. He may have deceived himself into thinking he was no longer vital to the medical world—a view she was determined to change—but in no way could he deny the good he was doing this night. May it prove to be the push he needed.
A disturbance rippled from the back of the crowd. A head bobbed closer and closer until the press of guests peeled back to reveal a ghost. Curly hair black as a Siberian night, trimmed mustache, tall and slim with long limbs accustomed to climbing in and out of carriages before palaces. Eyes so dark Svetlana could drown in them. And they were pinned directly on her.
“Sergey?” Mama called as if from a long distance away, barely registering as Svetlana fuzzily tried to piece together the apparition before her. It wasn’t possible.
Sergey’s ghost strode toward her. Svetlana didn’t have time to speak before his arms were around her, dipping her backward, and his mouth devouring hers, proving he was very much alive.
She froze. This wasn’t happening.
Righting her, Sergey pulled back and beamed a smile that outshone the moon.
“Hello, Svetka. I told you I would come, lyubimaya.”
“My love.” Disorientated, Svetlana shook her head as her gaze skittered around the hall in search of Wynn. Where was her unchanging mark as the night slanted sideways? Around her the crowd of guests murmured with what was surely to be tomorrow’s gossip. How could she explain?
She frantically searched the crowd. At last her eyes slammed onto her husband standing rooted to the steps. She caught one glimpse of the horror paling his face before the crowd surrounded her and Sergey, swallowing them whole.
Chapter 23
The guests had dispersed home amid the last drops of wine and buzzing with gossip of the duchess and her unexpected paramour. Another revolution could have sprung and Svetlana would not have noticed as she sat on the settee in the library with her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. The room had been a sanctuary when she’d first arrived with its overstuffed pillows and pages to pour through that recounted exploits of her new home, but she saw none of it now. Not even the blazing fire could stave off her chills, which had little to do with the formidable Scottish weather.
For his part Sergey appeared not the least concerned with the spectacle and ensuing fallout it caused as he recounted his tale.
“The Bolsheviks dragged me to one of the many buildings they had commandeered and threw me into the basement with the other loyalists they’d managed to capture that night you escaped.” He paced slowly in front of the large fireplace, the flames burning bright orange behind him to elongate his already lanky shadow. “When they weren’t int
errogating me, I was beaten and starved. Brutal tactics by beasts.”
Sitting in a chair opposite Svetlana, Mama dabbed a lace hankie to her eyes. “What information could they possibly hope to gain from a gentleman?”
“I’m a known loyalist to the tsar, as is my family, Princess. It was not always information they were after. More often it was punishment for my allegiances.”
A tear slipped down Mama’s cheek. “Where is your family now? I cannot imagine your gentle mother and sister enduring such horror.”
Sergey dropped his eyes as if the agony could not allow him to look at another human being. “I do not know their fate, but I pray they are alive and well. I am only glad my father did not live long enough to see this. The Reds would have made an example of him.”
“As they did to you instead.”
“For months it was the same. Yelling, beatings, scraps of food to fight over. So many died. Then one night the guards came in taunting us and firing their pistols into the ceiling. They were celebrating the news of the imperial family’s execution. To add to their merrymaking they decided to kill us, too, so we could continue to serve their highnesses in the great beyond.”
Sergey paused and gripped the mantel. A knot bobbed in his throat. “They marched us to the edge of the city and forced us to dig our own graves before they shot us. I was hit in the arm and fell into the pit. They forced the village peasants to cover us with dirt, but one of them saw I was alive and saved me.”
“Oh, my poor brave boy.”
“Eventually I made it out of Russia and to Paris. I looked everywhere for you. Asked everyone I encountered.”
Mama sniffed. “Svetlana kept us hidden. She didn’t trust anyone to know who we were.”
“It was safer that way, Mama,” Marina said from her chair.
“Then on Armistice Day, I found you.” Sergey looked to Svetlana. Anguish rippled across his face. “It was a moment, but I saw you. Standing at the window with your hair shining silver in the morning light. I tried to get to you, but the crowd pushed me on. By the time I managed to break free I was blocks away.”
With a cry Mama lurched to the edge of her chair and stared accusingly at Svetlana. “Why did you not tell me you’d seen Sergey? How could you keep it to yourself?”
Having sat silent since they entered the library as the initial shock settled into acceptance that this was indeed happening and Sergey was standing before them, Svetlana roused herself to respond.
“At the time I didn’t know for certain. I rushed out the door to find you, but then the letter came informing us about Hugh.” She pushed away the memory of that awful telegram. “I thought if it had been you, you would return.”
Sergey nodded sympathetically. “I mapped my way back somehow, only to find two shadows stalking me.”
Marina gasped. “The Reds?”
“Whoever it was, I didn’t feel safe leading them straight to you, so I left and laid low for a time. When I finally returned to the address it was locked up tight. The neighbors said you’d sailed to Britain.”
“Where you’ve finally found us. As you promised.” Mama’s tearful voice cracked as if she were apologizing for their absence, as if their safety had been a secondary inconvenience.
“I would never break my promise to you.” Sergey’s eyes combed over Svetlana as if fitting the puzzle of her to the memory he’d held when they last parted.
She couldn’t help doing the same. He was leaner than before, like a reed shaved down to its sparest form. The hair and mouth and mannerisms were the same, but there was an edge to him now. The easygoing manner so finely tuned to parties and afternoons riding in drozhkies had coiled into a bound energy that vibrated just below the skin. Yet when she looked into his dark eyes, she saw the same young man who had come to play cards with her on Sunday afternoons, who had taken her ice skating when the freeze set in, and whom she might have married. But the revolution had changed things, had changed them. Could he see the differences in her as well?
Differences or not, it was a wonderful miracle to see him again. Alive and safe. A piece of her life returned.
“I can’t believe you’re really standing here.”
Sergey knelt in front of her and held her hands between his. “Believe it, kroshka. I told you I would find you and I have. The thought of returning to your side was all that kept me alive since we parted over a year ago.” His eyes glistened with fervor as he pressed his lips to her fingertips.
The library door slammed shut, startling them. Wynn stood there, his face held in shadow as the firelight dared not touch that far across the room.
“The guest chamber is being prepared.”
Svetlana withdrew her hands from Sergey’s and tucked them in her lap. First that kiss and now this. She’d done nothing to contribute to either, but shame filled her nonetheless.
Ever the courtly gentleman, Sergey rose and smoothed the front of his worn black jacket.
“Thank you. My sincerest apologies for placing a burden on you with no advance warning.”
“No trouble at all.” Wynn strolled to stand near the end of the settee. His expression freed itself from the darkened shadows, but what was revealed was nothing resembling lightness.
Svetlana dug her nails into her palms to keep from twisting the silk fabric of her skirt. The charity event had been a great success, but this night was going down as the most chaotic she’d ever experienced.
“Of course it’s no trouble when Sergey is a dear old friend of our family.” Mama beamed as if Sergey had hung the sun and stars. A belief she’d always attributed to him despite having her own son to dote upon. Then again, Nikolai always had more heart than polish. “If not for him, we never could have escaped Petrograd. We owe him everything.”
“As we do Wynn for all he’s done. If I had a glass, I would toast you both.” Svetlana smiled up at Wynn. “Sergey was telling us of his imprisonment and eventual escape from the Bolsheviks. It was him I saw that day in the crowd.” Armistice Day. The day of worldwide rejoicing. The day their lives had changed forever when that telegram arrived announcing Hugh’s death.
From the look on Wynn’s face, he remembered it all too well. Shifting his weight, he smoothed his expression to pleasant blandness once more.
“I’m amazed you were able to find the princesses in Paris. The war turned it from one of the most vibrant cities in the world to a pot of mass chaos.”
“It wasn’t easy, I grant you,” Sergey said.
“How did you find us?” Svetlana asked.
“I knew you probably wouldn’t be using your titles, so I made discreet inquiries that led me to the Russian part of Paris. Who knew such a thing existed? Seems I barely missed the influenza epidemic, which decimated our people, forced as they were to live like rats in basements.”
“The entire world has been affected. They’re saying the number of deceased victims may be greater than those lost during the war.” Svetlana’s throat constricted as she looked at Marina. “We had our own scare.”
Sergey’s hand flattened to his heart. “Dear sister. How glad I am that you survived. A true miracle.”
“Another blessing Wynn gave us,” Svetlana added.
Wynn’s lips cracked into a soft smile. “It was the attention her doting nurse gave her that saved her life.”
There it was again. That subtle look that passed between him and her like an exhale of breath. Soft, undetectable, yet laced with possibilities. What might have happened if they’d been able to continue their dance earlier? Would they finally have known what it was like to share a breath?
Sergey cleared his throat, drawing attention back to him, and resumed his recounting. “From a few of the survivors who remembered your descriptions, I was able to trace you to an Alexander Nevsky Cathedral where the priest said he’d married you in November. Imagine my surprise.”
His lips pinched beneath his black mustache. Longing and sadness mingled in his eyes as they lingered on Svetlana, hundreds of hour
s of memories spent together lost in them.
“I would be a liar to say I was not shocked and saddened at the news that your precious hand had slipped from mine, much as it did that day on the train platform, but I forced myself to overcome my own feelings and rejoice that you were alive. That is all that truly matters to me.”
The past held too many what-ifs and Sergey’s sudden appearance brought them all rushing back to the surface. A future she had once been destined to. She could no longer afford to mourn. Life had moved on.
With this new life came suspicion of the old one trailing her. “Do you recall the names of the people you spoke to?”
“Peasants mostly. I didn’t bother asking their names. Why do you ask?”
“I only wonder if it was some of the same people we lived with at the church.” Or a crooked club owner who sheltered the evilness of communism to his own advantage. “We left rather in a hurry.”
“So the priest informed me when he gave me your address.”
Wynn stepped closer, the dancing flames shadowing havoc across his impassible expression.
“We didn’t give the priest our address. Considering the name Dalsky is being hunted by the Bolsheviks, it was best to keep such information hidden.”
Sergey dipped a finger behind the folds of his necktie to his scratch at his neck. “Pardon me for misspeaking. What I meant was, the priest told me you were a physician at the hospital, so naturally I went there. One of your colleagues was able to send me in the correct direction, but as I was telling the ladies, my timing proved to be a stroke of bad luck, and I was forced to continue my journey to Britain. Once here, there was little difficulty in finding the Duke of Kilbride’s estate. I’m only sorry to have disturbed what appeared to be a remarkable evening.”
He tried to cover his pain, but the half-hearted smile fluttering across his mouth wasn’t an adequate mask. Guilt sliced through Svetlana. Once she might have shared a life with him. A marriage of companionship and understanding and comfort, which was more than most couples could expect. She might have tried for more, to love him, but she never would have fallen in love with him. Now friendship and refuge were all she could offer him. With Wynn, however, something wonderful stirred between them, something promising more than mere companionship.
The Ice Swan Page 27