Fury darkened his father’s golden eyes. “You may have escaped the pasha’s guards tonight, but you will never be allowed to leave Egypt. Eventually you will be returned to the citadel.”
Being returned to the citadel was the least of Dimitri’s concerns at the moment, but the threat did put in mind a nagging question.
“That reminds me. However did you force Koman to crawl off his divan and petition my guilt before the pasha?”
There was a moment of sullen silence, then the older man absently smoothed the folds of his cravat, his fingers lingering on the ruby stickpin that shimmered like a drop of blood on the crisp white linen.
“The baron possesses a young daughter who resides with her mother in St. Petersburg.”
“And?” Dimitri prompted.
“And I pointed out that such a gently reared female would be worth a fortune in the slave market.”
Dimitri’s breath hissed through his teeth. Whatever his dislike of the fat, indolent baron, no man deserved to have his daughter threatened with rape.
“And I have been branded a coldhearted bastard. Have you no conscience whatsoever? Ah…” His lips twisted in a sneer. “Of course. I was forgetting that noblemen have no need for common decency.”
His father waved away Dimitri’s mocking criticism. “I merely made a suggestion. It was Koman who assumed that it was a threat.”
“You are truly remarkable. Do you take responsibility for nothing?”
His father leaned forward, his eyes glittering with a cold hatred.
“You are in no position to judge me,” he hissed.
“Why? Because I am the son of a whore?”
“Because you are not so different from me.”
Only years of rigid discipline kept Dimitri from pulling the trigger of the pistol.
“You compare us again, and I will yank out your tongue,” he said, his frigid tone revealing he was prepared to follow through on his threat.
The count’s lips twisted in an ugly smile, taking obvious pleasure in Dimitri’s outrage.
“But we are. You have devoted your life to plotting your revenge upon me. And we both know you would have committed any sin, no matter how evil, to destroy me.” He leaned forward. “I have done nothing less.”
In the moonlight Dimitri could see the haunting likeness between them.
The wide forehead, the aquiline nose, high cheekbones and full lips.
He had always assumed that those physical similarities were all he had in common with Count Nevskaya. After all, the man was a depraved monster who had destroyed countless children. How could he bear to think they were related by more than blood?
But a tiny voice whispered that he had nearly allowed himself to become as empty and bitter as his miserable father.
His dark crusade for revenge had consumed his life. And the count was not mistaken when he claimed that Dimitri had been willing to do whatever necessary to destroy the man who he held responsible for his mother’s death.
He had almost sacrificed his own heart.
In the end, it had been Emma who rescued him.
She filled his heart with love, banishing the hatred that had nearly destroyed him.
He allowed a smile of smug satisfaction. “The difference is that my revenge has succeeded whereas yours has failed miserably.”
A malignant anger twisted the count’s lean features. “Do not be so certain. You have not yet escaped Egypt.”
Dimitri shrugged. “Even if I were to be captured and returned to the citadel it will be no more than a momentary inconvenience. We both know that Alexander Pavlovich will soon demand my release.”
“Until he does, however, you will be trapped.” The older man narrowed his gaze, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “And I can assure you that Fawzi was not the only man I hired to see you dead. Eventually one will succeed.”
Dimitri had to admire his father’s tenacity. Even when he had to realize his plot for revenge had been ruined, he continued to search for a means to salvage his pride.
“I do not believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“If there were truly more assassins you would have kept them a secret,” Dimitri countered. “To reveal them to me would steal away their greatest power.”
“Power?”
“The power of catching me off guard.” Dimitri shook his head. He had played chess often enough to know when he had his opponent in checkmate. “No, you are defeated, Father. Utterly and completely defeated.”
His father abruptly stiffened, his icy composure crumbling as he at last accepted that he had been bested by his own son.
In that moment he was not the sophisticated Count Nevskaya. Or the cunning power behind the slave traders. Or even the father who had glared down his nose when Dimitri’s mother had hauled him to the elegant town house.
No. This was a man facing ruin.
The golden eyes smoldered with a demented fire and spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.
“You will pay for this,” the count spat, his hand fumbling toward the door of the carriage.
For a moment, Dimitri assumed his father was attempting to escape.
He was not, after all, the sort of man who would face his guilt with dignity. Had he not fled St. Petersburg like a gutless deserter, leaving behind his comrades to be charged with his crimes?
Then, he realized that Nevskaya was instead digging into a side pocket.
The world slowed as Dimitri watched his father with an odd detachment.
He knew what the man was searching for. He had similar pockets sewn into his own carriages to make certain he had a loaded pistol conveniently at hand. The streets could be a dangerous place. Who knew when you might have need of a hidden weapon?
His finger tightened on the trigger, but still he hesitated. So far as Dimitri was concerned, his quest to destroy his father was at an end.
What did the past matter when his future promised to be a glorious adventure with Emma Linley-Kirov?
As long as Dimitri made certain that the pasha knew the count was in his country and that he was responsible for the traffickers, eventually his father would be served his just rewards.
But even as he shoved himself toward the far door of the carriage, the count had the gun in his hand and was swinging it in Dimitri’s direction. Dimitri had a brief moment to wryly accept his father had possessed none of his qualms as he swiftly fired a shot, the bullet grazing his already wounded shoulder.
Dimitri instinctively returned fire, his own shot far superior as it hit his father directly in the center of his chest.
It had been years since he had missed his target.
The stench of gunpowder filled the carriage and with a sense of inevitability, Dimitri watched as his father sprawled across the seat, the gun dropping from his lifeless fingers.
He knew that he should feel something.
Triumph. Sorrow. Relief.
Instead, his only thought was that he hoped his newest bullet wound was healed before he reached St. Petersburg. Emma would not be pleased if she discovered he had managed to be shot once again.
His inane musings were interrupted as the door to the carriage was yanked open and Josef stuck his head through the opening, his knife clutched in his hand.
His gaze darted about the carriage, settling on the motionless form of Nevskaya even as he reached down to snatch the pistol from the carriage floor.
“Damn you, Tipova, you nearly frightened me into my grave,” he growled, waving the gun at the count. “Is he…”
“Dead,” Dimitri said in clipped tones, waving his friend from the door so he could climb out of the carriage.
Once he was standing on the street, he sucked in a deep, cleansing breath.
He was vaguely aware of the Arabian jasmine-scented air and the distant passage of guards returning to the citadel, but he paid them no heed.
He was anxious to put the exotic splendor of Egypt behind him.
Moving to his side
, Josef nodded his head toward the carriage.
“What do you want done with the body?”
Dimitri shrugged. “Leave it for the vultures.”
“Fawzi disappeared, of course. Vile little rat,” Josef muttered. “Did you want him tracked down?”
“No, I am done with revenge.”
There was a short silence as Josef studied him with a narrowed gaze.
“Now what?”
“Now, Josef, we go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
St. Petersburg
WITH A BREATH OF RELIEF, Emma slipped into the blessed silence of a small breakfast room at the back of Vanya Petrova’s town house. A brief glance revealed walls covered in green damask panels with birchwood furnishings, but it was the view of the sunken rose garden that attracted her attention.
The hem of her ivory gown richly trimmed with gold lace brushed the parquet floor as she walked and her hands absently stroked the lovely fabric.
Vanya had surprised Emma with the dress earlier that morning. Obviously, the wily noblewoman had already suspected that Emma intended to use the excuse of having nothing appropriate to wear to her wedding to hide in her rooms.
A faint smile curved Emma’s lips. She was, of course, delighted that Vanya was at last exchanging vows with her devoted lover, Richard Monroe. And deeply touched that the older woman had gone to the trouble of postponing the ceremony until Emma had returned to St. Petersburg.
After all, it was not as if she were a part of her family. Or even a close friend. She was simply a common peasant who imposed herself on the poor woman.
The realization had nagged at her with growing persistence over the past few days.
What reason did she have to linger in St. Peters burg?
Without warning, the image of a dark, lean face with golden eyes seared through her mind. Dimitri. The damnable man who had yet to make his glorious arrival.
A savage pain sliced through her heart before she was ruthlessly thrusting aside the worthless emotion.
Although she had heard from Herrick that Dimitri had managed to escape from the pasha, and had been forced to kill his evil father, she had received no more than a terse note that might have been sent from a stranger.
Which was perfectly fine with her, she told herself.
Had she not already decided that she and Dimitri Tipova were utterly unsuitable?
Now if she could just convince her traitorous heart.
Ignoring the distant sound of laughter floating from the formal parlor, Emma studied the garden that slumbered beneath the pale February sunlight. Absently, she rubbed her bare arms, a strange chill crawling over her skin. No doubt it was a mere reaction to the cold after the heat of Cairo.
It was not as if she believed in premonitions.
The stern warning had barely passed through her mind when the sound of footsteps had her spinning about, her heart lodged in her throat.
For a breathless moment she expected Dimitri to step through the door. Ludicrous, of course. Even if he had returned to St. Petersburg there was no reason for him to make an appearance at Vanya’s home.
No reason whatsoever.
Thankfully unaware of Emma’s stupid sense of disappointment, the Duchess of Huntley entered the room, appearing stunningly beautiful in a pale blue gown that perfectly matched her eyes with silver netting that was sprinkled with a king’s ransom in sapphires.
“What a beautiful wedding,” she said, moving toward Emma with a determined smile.
Emma did not have to be told that Leonida had been the one chosen to seek her out and ensure that she had not sunk into a fit of melancholy.
Over the past few days, she had been acutely aware of the worried glances from Herrick and Vanya, and even the haughty Duke of Huntley had chided her for the shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin. As if she were to blame for her sleepless nights.
“Yes.” She managed a smile, knowing that Leonida only had her best interests at heart. “And Vanya made an exquisite bride.”
“It makes one wonder why she tortured poor Richard for so many years by refusing to be his wife. It is obvious she adores him.”
Emma shrugged. She was only vaguely familiar with the complicated courtship between Vanya and Richard, although she had heard several stories of Vanya’s cunning plots over the years to protect Alexander Pavlovich’s claim to the throne.
“Perhaps she was not yet prepared to sacrifice her independence.”
“True. She is a remarkably intelligent woman who has led a most fascinating life.” Leonida chuckled, the sunlight shimmering in her pale golden hair. “I hope someday she will be inclined to confess a few of her more thrilling adventures.”
Emma glanced toward the delicate vases that Vanya had acquired on her journey to China.
“I deeply admire her.”
“As do I.” Leonida paused, a speculative glint in her eyes. “Still, a woman does not necessarily have to sacrifice her independence when she weds.”
Even suspecting the conversation was destined to be shifted in the direction of Dimitri, Emma tensed.
“You say that only because you were blessed with a husband who is devoted to your happiness.” She absently brushed aside a curl that had come loose from the elegant knot on top her head. “Most women have little choice but to bow to a man’s will, regardless of her desires.”
“Which only means that a woman must take care in choosing her husband.”
Emma shook her head. A woman might be able to choose her husband, but she had little control over who she fell in love with.
“If only it were that simple.” She sighed.
With a frown, Leonida reached to take her hand. “What is troubling you, Emma?”
“Nothing.” Emma determinedly squared her shoulders. “In fact, my life is at last settled. I shall soon be returning to my cottage in Yabinsk.”
“Oh.” A frown tugged at Leonida’s brows. “So far away?”
“I have promised both Vanya and Herrick Gerhardt that I will return to St. Petersburg to visit.”
“And what of Dimitri?”
Emma tugged away from Leonida’s grasp, spinning on her heel to pace to the ceramic stove set in the corner of the room.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“I am not blind,” Leonida said. “He loves you. And I am fairly certain you return his feelings.”
Emma bit her lower lip, knowing it was futile to lie. Despite being a pampered lady of society, Leonida was far from stupid. And it was not as if Emma were skilled in disguising her emotions.
Unlike others.
“What if I do?”
“Love is a rare gift, Emma.” Leonida moved to her side, her expression troubled. “Why would you turn your back on Dimitri?”
“I am not turning my back on Dimitri. I am…”
“Yes?” Leonida softly prompted.
Emma hunched her shoulders, wishing Leonida would rejoin the other guests. As much as she enjoyed the woman’s charming friendship, Emma was unaccustomed to sharing her emotions with anyone.
“We could never be happy together,” she muttered.
Leonida hesitated, as if carefully considering her words. “Does it trouble you he was forced to become a criminal?”
“Oddly enough, no.” Emma smiled ruefully. Perhaps if she were a more righteous person she would be shocked by Dimitri’s past, but life had taught her not to judge others. Not when she had endured the endless censure of her neighbors. “Oh, I am not naive. I know that he has suffered a brutal life and that he has profited from the sins of others, but I also know that he has a kind and generous heart and that he would give his life to protect those he considers his family.”
“He also happens to be superbly handsome and indecently wealthy,” Leonida teased. “What more could you desire?”
“It is not what I desire, but what Dimitri desires,” she said, her brows lifting as Leonida suddenly laughed. “What is so amusing?”
; “Dearest Emma.” Leonida reached to pat her arm. “You need only see Dimitri’s expression when you enter a room to know that it is taking all his restraint not to toss you over his shoulder and haul you away like the pirate he is.”
A hot flush stained her cheeks. Not at the knowledge Dimitri had been so blatant in his passion for her. What woman would not be pleased to have such a handsome gentleman regarding her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world? Instead, it was the memory of the vivid dreams that had plagued her.
She awkwardly cleared her throat. “I was not referring to Dimitri’s lust.”
“No?”
“I meant his passion for protecting those he loves.”
Leonida wrinkled her nose, as if intimately familiar with domineering males.
“Ah, it is unfortunate, but there is no man who does not possess the urge to protect others,” she admitted, a glimmer of sly humor shimmering in her blue eyes. “A wise woman allows him to fuss and then do precisely as she pleases.”
“That might be well enough for most men, but not Dimitri.” Emma wrapped her arms around her waist as she shivered with an aching sense of loss. “He blames himself for his mother’s death.”
Leonida sucked in a sharp breath. “How dreadful.”
“The belief has tortured him his entire life.”
“Which is all the more reason he needs you to help heal his wounds,” Leonida urged gently, unaware her words were like a dagger to Emma’s heart.
“No.” She shook her head. “What he needs is a woman who is happy to depend upon him without question and does not mind having her life controlled by another.”
“Actually, I think I should be allowed to decide the sort of woman I prefer, Emma Linley-Kirov.”
A shocked silence filled the room as both women slowly turned to watch the handsome, raven-haired gentleman stroll toward them.
Her gaze slid down his slender form that was shown to advantage in a Persian-blue jacket with silver waistcoat and black pantaloons. His cravat was precisely knotted with a diamond stickpin tucked among the folds and his hair smoothed into a queue at his nape.
Emma’s heart squeezed with a painful excitement. He was so splendidly, dangerously beautiful.
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