Klara threw back the covers in anger and climbed out of bed. ‘No! After everything I’ve shown you tonight, given you tonight, you still have the audacity to ask that?’ Rage coursed through her. How could anyone fake what she’d experienced tonight? How could he be so blind? She wanted to hit him. She grabbed up the nearest item to her, a pillow, and struck out, once, twice, before he got a hold of the pillow, tugging until her rage turned to tears. This was all her fault. Now she was paying for it, spurned by the man she’d unwisely chosen to love.
* * *
Her tears were his undoing. Nikolay wrested the pillow from her and gathered her into his arms, regretting his harsh words instantly. She’d given him an extraordinary gift and he’d thrown it in her face. ‘Klara, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.’ It was poorly done. The woman who had moaned her pleasure beneath him had been no man’s pawn. She’d been real in her passion as he’d been real in his. To depict what they’d done as anything other than genuine was to do it a disservice. He held her to him, rocking her against him.
What the hell was wrong with him? Why did he hurt the women he loved? He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the memories Klara’s questions had opened tonight; Helena with the knife, coming at him, stabbing him before he could disarm her, before he could dispel his disbelief. And the sabre, dear Lord, the sabre! There’d been only seconds to hold the lightning-quick debate in his mind: do or die? The warrior in him had won, but Helena haunted him and likely would for ever. He would never completely banish the images of her crumpled on his floor, life seeping out of her. Had there been another way? He’d taken her life, held her in his arms as she slipped away. He could rationalise his decision, but he couldn’t accept it.
Here he was on the brink of making that same decision again: his survival over another’s. He’d hurt Klara. ‘Klara, I should not have said it, I should not have...’ he murmured the words into the softness of her hair.
‘No, it’s me who should not have done so many things,’ Klara sniffed through her tears. ‘I should never have walked into the riding school. I should never have agreed to vet you. I should have walked away after that first dinner. But I was selfish. I thought I could serve my father and myself.’
He could feel the fatigue in the weight of her body against his. He’d not thought of the toll this was taking on her. This whole time he’d thought only of himself, the hunted victim. But Klara was a victim, too, and perhaps less well equipped to handle the consequences than him. ‘You were so handsome, so charming, so different, and you knew so much that I wanted to know. I couldn’t resist.’ She sniffed again. ‘You were right all along. I did play a double game; one for myself and one for my father. But I never told him about Soho. I never told him about the stables, or the kill pens. All the best parts I kept to myself. I promise.’
His best parts were starting to rouse, finally recognising that they were both naked and in close proximity. Or perhaps it was his mind registering that this at last was the complete truth, as imperfect as it was. ‘Klara, I believe you.’ He kissed the top of her head where it rested on his chest. ‘It’s not all your fault. I gave in when I could have walked away.’ He could give her this at least. ‘You intrigued me, just you. I didn’t want to let you go.’ They’d both been selfish and it had led to this untenable situation.
‘What would you be doing if you hadn’t met me?’ Klara’s question was like yarn in the dark.
‘Giving riding lessons. Tolerating the Four Horsewomen of the Apocalypse.’
‘Is that all? I can’t imagine that’s it. That life is too small for the man I know.’ She snuggled up against him. His groin responded. They were past the anger now, past the hurt. ‘Is that why you go to the kill pens? Just for the adventure of it?’
He took pity on her. Klara wanted one more small piece of him. Perhaps she was entitled to that much. ‘I go when I am called. There are those who know I am a friend to horses. When there’s a horse in jeopardy, they get word to me.’
‘That sounds nice. Worthy. Far worthier than anything I’ve done in my life. What do you do with the horses? You can’t possibly keep them all.’
‘I am building my string, for my riding school.’ He laughed. ‘Does that satisfy your curiosity, Miss Nosy-Parker? Or does that disappoint you? That your prince is a simple man, after all?’
She wiggled more intentionally now, her tone becoming playful. ‘No, it doesn’t disappoint me at all. Where do you propose to have this fine school?’
‘I haven’t decided. I have a few locations in mind.’ His hand ran a lazy pattern up her arm. He was starting to be interested in other things besides riding schools. He lifted her on to the bed, his body moving over hers. ‘Right now, though, I just want to ride you.’
In affirmation, she reached up for him, her arms about his neck, pulling him down to her and he let her. There would be time later to worry about the revolution. It went unspoken between them that these confessions didn’t change anything. She would still face a choice and it was still unclear how she’d answer. And he still faced a choice of his own: assist Grigoriev with his revolt, or risk the ambassador’s wrath. Tonight they could have their pleasure, the morning be damned.
Chapter Eighteen
There were blinis for breakfast, the traditional Russian crepe that dominated the Maslenitsa celebration. The buffet table in the morning room was set with every topping imaginable: caviar, sour cream, jams, fruits, even a pot of hot, melted butter to drizzle over them like syrup. Grigoriev and the General must want him badly. Amesbury was already there in the breakfast room, his plate laden with shirred eggs and kippers, very English.
Nikolay gave the Duke a terse nod and set about heaping his plate with blinis still warm from the kitchens, deliberately ignoring the English dishes on offer. He took a seat at the table next to the young man who’d spoken out over drinks last night. His plate, too, showed a hearty serving of the blinis. ‘One does not ignore blinis during pancake week, eh?’ Nikolay grinned. He could feel the Duke’s disgust as the jab hit home. He looked over at Amesbury, his expression bland as if his remark had not been intended to insult. ‘No blini for you, Your Grace?’
‘No, Your Highness. Sweets are for children, in my opinion. Meat is for men. Keeps up one’s strength.’ He held up his fork speared with a sausage to emphasise the point.
Nikolay let his accent thicken. ‘Ah, perhaps I am mistaken. I thought England celebrated pancake week, too?’ He feigned the question. ‘Shrovetide, is it not?’ He grinned and made a particular effort in taking an overlarge bite of the blini.
‘Yes, but not all Englishmen take it seriously. You will find that England is a land of thinking men. We’ve learned from the past the harms religious zealotry and superstition can bring.’ Amesbury took a swallow of his coffee. ‘Are you a religious man, Your Highness? I hear so many of your countrymen are. Certainly the Tsar is.’ It was not meant as a compliment. In one fell insult, Amesbury managed to denigrate his country and its leader.
Nikolay thought of the St John’s medal he wore beneath his shirt. ‘I am, Your Grace. Most smart soldiers are. It’s an occupation that demands it. And yourself? Do you classify yourself as a religious man?’
‘No. I haven’t time for superstitious nonsense,’ the Duke said baldly, tossing down the verbal gauntlet. Those were fighting words. One could not sit there and insult him, his country and his God. without facing repercussions. Nikolay had no hesitation in dealing out those repercussions, duke or not, but a rustle at the doorway tabled the altercation.
‘You don’t have time for what?’ Klara sailed into the room, dressed for the outdoors and all smiles; perhaps too many smiles. She looked radiant to him, alive and fresh and his. Seeing her sent a straight shot of desire to his gut even though she’d only left him a few hours ago.
Nikolay straightened. It was an easy adjustment since he was already halfway up, or halfway across the tab
le depending on how one looked at it. The Duke rose with a nod in her direction. ‘My dear Klara, good morning. You look lovely.’ Would the Duke guess? Part of him wanted the man to. Nikolay was already contemplating pistols at twenty paces. Perhaps the south lawn where the grass was flat would be a good place to duel. Nikolay tried to assess her through neutral eyes. Did she look like a woman who’d passed the night in the arms of her lover?
He moved to the sideboard, assembling her a plate while Amesbury was still dawdling over small talk. Was that the best Amesbury could do? You look lovely? She did look well in a dark blue riding habit cut with a salute to the military tradition, her hair braided in a neat coronet about her head, but Klara was always lovely. In his experience, actions spoke louder than words.
‘Klara dear, do take a seat, shall I get you something to eat?’ The Duke pulled out the chair beside him and Klara sat, but Nikolay slid his newly assembled plate in front of her, heaped with blinis and meaning as he tossed the Duke a smug glare.
Klara gave a little laugh, a trifle uneasy with the attention. ‘It seems Prince Baklanov has already taken care of that for me.’
Nikolay boldly took the chair on her other side, abandoning his original seat. ‘The blinis are excellent this morning. I’ve picked out some toppings I think you will enjoy especially.’ He gestured to the dark dollop on the side of the plate. ‘I recall from dinner how much you enjoy the caviar. Try it first. I think it tastes best before one gets the sour cream on one’s palate.’
If circumstances had been different, he would have fixed her a bite and fed it to her as if it were the world’s greatest delicacy, but this was not a lady’s boudoir in the late of evening. This was an English breakfast room at nine o’clock in the morning and there were onlookers, one onlooker in particular. He wondered what the chances were of selecting swords over pistols? He liked his odds there better.
What he did not like was the Duke. He did not like that the Duke was intimately connected with arms dealers, or that the Duke felt he was entitled to an intimate connection with Klara. The tête-à-tête in the window yesterday had not been a coincidence. Now, Amesbury was calling her ‘dear’, and the man seemed to revel in doing so, as if he had a claim to her. Was he the Englishman Klara was meant for? The possibility made Nikolay like him even less. He was all wrong for her. Amesbury wasn’t a lover, but a dominator. He knew this sort of man. Sex wasn’t pleasure to him, but power.
Nikolay watched Klara swallow the blini and caviar, thinking of her mouth savouring other things as it had last night. He could not recall when a woman had affected him so much the morning after. Usually by then his ‘perspective’ had returned and he found the woman less captivating. Not so this morning. He was feeling surly, protective and wanting Klara all to himself, something he’d be hard pressed to arrange before midnight. He fixed her another bite. ‘Caviar from the Caspian Sea is the best in the world. I think it’s the water’s temperature that does it. Black pearls, we call them.’ Nikolay glanced over at the Duke. ‘Have you ever been? To the Caspian Sea? Beautiful place. You should go some time.’
He felt a sharp kick to his ankle. Klara was on to him. His possessive male pride wanted to say something entirely childish along the lines of ‘She likes me better. I made her shatter against a barn wall and then last night...’ But there were dangerous truths that such recognition unlocked. He had shattered that night and last night, too, completely undone by her touch, her intensity and what it could mean. Even hours later, the magnitude of what she’d done; she’d come to him as a bride to a groom, offering her body, her maidenhead, a show of her belief in him. Stepan would laugh at this perhaps naïve conclusion. But he was having trouble doubting Klara now. She had managed to separate herself from her father’s game, at least momentarily. That separation couldn’t last, though, and she would pay the price for it. Would it be worth three nights of passion? Three nights of freedom?
He had until the end of the party before he had to refuse Grigoriev, and leave Klara. The weekend, which had loomed ominously at the beginning, now seemed short indeed. Just two days to go. There would be consequences if he said no. Grigoriev had made explicit references to rebellion in front of him last night. They couldn’t let him wander off if he refused. If?
He should say no. He was on the brink of a new life. His stable was within reach. He was not enamoured of doing business with the likes of Cabot Roan. Yet, the earlier temptation whispered persistently and with a new refrain. Do it for Klara, do it to save Klara. He couldn’t help but think this morning how much it easier it would be on Klara if he said yes. By saying yes, he could remove the pressure for her to choose between him and her father, he could assuage the restlessness in himself. He was made for war. It was what he knew. They’d all be on the same side. These men wanted what he wanted: a Russia that could compete with western Europe. These ideas were the very ideas that had forced him from Kuban. Now he had a chance to march back to Russia and fight for those ideas. Shouldn’t a prince, a soldier, always be ready to protect his country from the enemy, even when the enemy came from within? Perhaps there was enough good in Grigoriev’s cause to outweigh the bad. It was certainly a convenient argument to make with the beautiful Klara in his bed and sobbing in his arms. He could hear Stepan’s voice of reason in his head, faint but compelling. ‘Perhaps it is all still just a trick. Women conjure tears like crocodiles. The risk to yourself is enormous.’ Perhaps the risk to Klara was greater, she was far more innocent in all of this than he and she was the one likely to be hurt all the more because of it.
Grigoriev stepped into the room. ‘I thought I’d find the rest of you here! The weather is fine and we’re ready to head out of doors for a tour of the grounds.’ He nodded towards Nikolay. ‘We have a riding arena set up for this afternoon. Some of the General’s men are going to do a demonstration, if you would like to join them.’
‘Absolutely,’ Nikolay replied, as if he had a choice. Grigoriev wasn’t a man who asked others for permission. Perhaps a display of his prowess would put Grigoriev on alert. It had occurred to him that maybe Grigoriev didn’t fear him knowing their plans because a man who refused to participate was a dead man. If so, he’d show them today it might be harder than they expected to kill Nikolay Baklanov. ‘Your Grace—’ Nikolay couldn’t refuse a last bit of prodding. He turned to the Duke ‘—will you join us for pistols at least?’ If there was a duel with Amesbury coming, he’d like to know what he was up against.
* * *
If breakfast had been for him, the tour was for the Duke and the other guests, a polite reminder of Grigoriev’s own wealth and power and who was really in charge of the revolt. There were gardens to tour with manicured bushes, topiaries and knot gardens. Even in winter, the garden was green and held the promise of spring. There were the stables to see, done in the latest fashion of box stalls and wall feeders for hay instead of troughs taking up space down the centre aisle. The stable was a marvel, built around a square courtyard. There was an indoor riding house as well, constructed with high windows for light. ‘For my daughter’s hobby.’ Grigoriev shrugged, unassumingly proud of both his daughter and the grounds.
Nikolay let himself drop to the back of the group, making it easy for Klara to find him. He was hungry for her, for even the simplest of her touches. She found him as the group moved from the stable to the carriages waiting to drive everyone out to the home farm to see the modern dairy. They took up the seats in a small carriage at the end of the line, most of the group having already moved out.
‘You have to stop needling him,’ Klara began without preamble the moment the carriage set in motion.
‘Him? You mean His Grace, the Duke of Amesbury?’ Nikolay watched her fuss with the lap robes, tucking them about her legs to ward off the cold. He smiled. His strong Klara was feeling vulnerable, shy with him after last night’s wicked openness.
‘Yes. You know exactly who I mean.’ She looked up from her tuc
king, her eyes serious. ‘This is not a game, Nikolay.’
He met her gaze with equal seriousness. ‘No, it is not. It is a revolution, one whose success is not guaranteed. Not that Amesbury cares. He wants only to sell the arms. He cares not that men will die. The lucky ones will die in battle. The unlucky will be hanged from the ramparts, condemned as traitors for wanting to bring their country forward. For that, they will pay the rather expensive price of patriotism,’ Nikolay scoffed. ‘The Duke will pay nothing. He will line his pockets.’
‘My father needs him. We cannot afford to have him alienated. We need the arms.’
‘We?’ Nikolay smirked. ‘You and your father. You’ve decided already whose side you’re on, even though your father is willing to use corrupt weapons to arm a rebellion.’
‘For a good cause, a cause you believe in, too,’ Klara argued.
‘The ends outweigh the means, then?’ Nikolay queried. How very practical of her. He’d do best to remember that when it came to understanding their affair.
‘Don’t make it sound crass, it’s what you’re thinking, too. You’ve been debating the issue all morning, I’ve seen it in your face.’ Klara reached for his hand. ‘You don’t know what to tell my father,’ she said softly.
‘No, I don’t,’ Nikolay admitted. ‘I should walk away because my principles will not tolerate doing business with the likes of Amesbury and Roan, men who do corrupt things for corrupt reasons.’ He dropped his voice and covered her hand where it lay on his, his eyes steady on her face with its delicate jaw and sharp eyes. God, she was beautiful when she looked at him with green eyes so full of...love. He didn’t want her to love him. He was flawed and broken, and there was so little he could offer her. ‘Do I support a just cause with materials gained from questionably unethical venues? I am very aware, Klara, if I say yes, I can save you from making a choice.’
Compromised by the Prince's Touch Page 16