Fool, indeed.
“You are wise not to beg,” he said, a grimness underlying his voice as he pulled the pistol from his pocket and once again pointed it at her heart. “I cannot bear a weepy woman.”
Pressing herself even deeper into the corner of the carriage, Brianna tugged the blanket tighter and attempted to compose her frantic thoughts.
Somehow, someway, she intended to survive.
No matter what it might take.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE SMALL COPSE OF TREES had seemed a perfect location to await Boris’s return. Not only was it close enough to the road to allow Edmond to keep a watch on the sparse travelers that dared the heavy snowfall and frigid temperatures, but it provided some protection from the brutal wind.
But very minimal, Edmond conceded, as he shivered beneath his greatcoat.
Vanya had, of course, attempted to make him take her carriage and outriders, even going so far as to warn him that Brianna would not be best pleased to be rescued on the back of his horse without so much as a blanket to ward off the frigid air.
Edmond, however, had been indifferent to the older woman’s pleas and inevitable scolds. Once he had Brianna in his arms, he would worry about discovering a carriage and enough blankets to cover the Baltic Sea. Until then, all that mattered was catching up to Viktor Kazakov as swiftly as possible.
He muttered a curse as his horse shifted beneath him, the restless creature’s breath turning to a mist as it hit the frozen air. Just through the trees, he could make out the vague silhouette of Boris, who had arrived just before Edmond had gone in pursuit of Kazakov and insisted on joining him. At the moment, his companion was interrogating the young peasant who was stationed outside the posting inn to assist with those carriages that became lodged in the snow.
It had been only a few minutes since Boris had left to question the servant, but his gut was twisted with sharp dread. With every beat of his heart, Brianna was slipping farther away from him. The smallest delay made him want to howl in frustration.
Unfortunately, the information he had received from the various individuals who had spotted Viktor Kazakov’s flight from Vanya’s house had only been able to lead him southward out of St. Petersburg. As much as he longed to charge like a madman through the snow and ice, he possessed enough of his shattered wits to realize he might cost Brianna her very life if his frantic haste made him lose her trail.
That he would not risk.
In an effort to distract his seething anguish, Edmond turned his attention back to the road that was barely visible through the heavy fall of snow. Nearly sixty years ago, the Empress Catherine had traveled this road on her coronation journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow. It was said that her sleigh was large enough to possess a bedroom and library, and that she tossed over a half a million silver coins to the crowds that lined the road.
The German Princess had understood the Russian people better than her grandson, Edmond ruefully acknowledged. The lavish procession and grand gestures of generosity had been a brilliant means to win the hearts of the peasants. Just as important, the spectacular displays she insisted upon were a subtle warning to the neighboring countries that Russia was a power to be respected, if not outright feared.
Alexander Pavlovich might bemoan the extravagant waste of the Imperial coffers, but he would never claim the love or loyalty that Catherine had so easily inspired.
A pity really. There were few rulers in the world that truly cared as deeply for his people as the current Czar. His sincerity, however, could not entirely compensate for his relentless doubt. Nor did it prevent his enemies from taking advantage of his weak rule.
Prepared for a wrench of guilt at the thought of Alexander Pavlovich and the knowledge he had abandoned his duty when he had left Herrick to deal with the traitors, Edmond felt nothing more than a vague hope that the older gentleman managed to bring an end to the conspirators.
After years of dedicating himself to the Czar and the Romanov rule, he realized that his loyalty now belonged utterly and completely to a tiny slip of a girl with emerald eyes and autumn hair.
Not a loyalty given to fill the aching void of his parents’ death. Not a loyalty to try and give some meaning to his empty existence.
No, this was a warm, ceaseless devotion that had snuck up on him without warning. One that had nothing to do with the shadows that haunted him and everything to do with Miss Brianna Quinn.
His heart twisted with a savage pain as the image of her pale beautiful features seared through his mind. Thank God that Boris chose that moment to turn and weave his way back through the trees.
“Well?” Edmond impatiently demanded, not waiting until Boris brought his horse to a halt beside him.
The well-seasoned soldier tightened the woolen scarf that was tied about his lower face.
“Viktor’s carriage was seen passing this way less than an hour ago. The servant is certain it turned to the left at the fork in the road. He remembers, because it nearly slid into the ditch and he had visions of a tidy reward for helping pull them free.”
“Then he intends to head for Novgorod, not Moscow,” Edmond muttered.
“Always presuming it is not merely a ruse.” Boris cast a jaundiced glance toward the road nearly hidden beneath the thickening snowdrifts. “You do know that it is quite likely that Viktor Kazakov deliberately allowed his carriage to be seen fleeing St. Petersburg in a reckless enough fashion, precisely to attract attention?” he growled. “No doubt the bastard is even now hidden in some hired vehicle as he sneaks away.”
Edmond was shaking his head before Boris finished speaking. “No, his entire purpose is taunting me into following him, so that I am unable to interfere in Grigori’s plans. He will not risk trickery until he can be certain I am well away from St. Petersburg.”
“You had best be right. If Viktor eludes us…”
“Enough! We will find Miss Quinn, make no mistake of that.”
With a sharp jerk on the reins, Edmond urged his horse from the shelter of the trees and onto the road. Boris was swiftly at his side, his large body deliberately placed to offer as much protection as possible.
“As you say,” he agreed, knowing better than to pursue his doubts.
Waiting until they were past the posting inn and the servants were busily attempting to sweep the gathering snow from the dirt road, Edmond cast a glance toward his companion.
“I must admit that you surprise me, Boris.”
“Why?”
“I would have expected you to attempt to convince me to remain in St. Petersburg, so that you could assist in halting the traitors and be hailed a hero.”
Boris snorted, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the other in constant vigilance.
“We have halted any number of revolutions, and I have yet to be hailed a hero. Damnation, I do not even recall a thank-you on most occasions.”
That was certainly true enough. More often than not, only a handful of individuals ever knew that a looming disaster had been averted. Still, Boris had always been fiercely dedicated to hunting down conspirators and bringing them to justice. Perhaps even more dedicated than Edmond.
It was unlike him not to at least complain at being denied the pleasure of his favorite sport.
“I suppose I can always request that Alexander Pavlovich pin a medal upon your chest,” Edmond said dryly. “He enjoys such formal ceremonies.”
Boris did not have to pretend his horror. “God forbid.”
Edmond carefully skirted a thickening snowdrift, recalling his companion’s adamant refusal to be left behind when Edmond had announced his intention to follow Viktor Kazakov.
“You have not answered my question, Boris. Why are you so anxious to rescue Miss Quinn, rather than battling the traitors?”
Boris sent him an aggravated glare before grudgingly accepting that Edmond would not be diverted.
“Viktor Kazakov sent a thug to knock me over the head and then tie me in a cellar—is that
not reason enough to pursue him to the gates of hell?”
“I did promise to return him to St. Petersburg, so you could enact your retribution.”
“I prefer not to wait. The sooner I have my hands about his rotter of a neck, the better.”
“Could it be that you did not trust my ability to capture the traitor?”
“Don’t be a fool, Summerville.”
“Then give me the truth.”
The man heaved an aggravated sigh.
“For one thing, I happen to have become very fond of Miss Quinn,” he growled. “For another…”
“Yes?”
“Janet sent me a letter before I left London, threatening to have me gelded if her beloved mistress suffers so much as a bruise while she is in Russia.”
Edmond’s muffled laugh echoed through the thick silence that blanketed the countryside. Boris was one of the most feared and respected soldiers ever to put on the Cavalry’s gold-trimmed red tunics, but Edmond had seen how a mere glance from the spirited Janet could put the man on his knees.
“A potent inducement to rescue her.”
There was a brief pause before Boris cleared his throat. “That is not the most potent inducement.”
“Rather astonishing.” Edmond glanced toward his friend. “I am almost afraid to ask what the most potent one is.”
“You.”
“Boris, I may be a demanding employer but I can assure you that I will never threaten to geld you,” he protested.
Boris gave a slow shake of his head. “No, I could not bear what it would do to you if something were to happen to Miss Quinn.”
Conversation ceased at the stark words, Boris intent on keeping guard, Edmond struggling to marshal the emotions that exploded within him. It was not the fear that something might happen to Brianna. He quite simply would not even consider the possibility. But more the knowledge that his entire existence now depended utterly on the happiness of the slender, beautiful woman.
They pressed on in silence, ignoring the relentless snowfall and brutal cold. Edmond kept their pace steady, knowing that Viktor Kazakov’s carriage would be struggling to avoid becoming lodged in the snow. As much as it chafed him to plod along, they should catch up to Brianna within the hour, so long as he did not break his horse’s leg and land him in a ditch.
He kept the thought foremost in his mind as his hands went numb from the cold and his eyes watered from the stinging wind.
“There is a carriage ahead,” Boris at last called softly, pointing toward the distant shadow beside the road. “Is it stuck?”
“I do not know, but I intend to discover,” Edmond muttered, slipping from his horse and tossing the reins around a nearby tree. “Remain here.”
“Not bloody likely.” Boris vaulted from his own mount, his expression grim with determination. “In the event you did not notice, there are a half a dozen outriders waiting just down the road.”
“Fine. But for the moment, I merely want to ensure that the carriage is Viktor’s and that this is not a trap.”
Boris offered a sharp nod, and together they slipped along the edge of the road.
They had reached the back of the carriage when the door was pressed open and the vague outline of a slender woman wrapped in a blanket was pushed down the steps and onto the snow-covered path.
“Brianna,” Edmond breathed even as Boris grasped his arm in a ruthless grip.
“Wait,” Boris muttered next to Edmond’s ear as Viktor Kazakov stepped out behind her, his hand pressed against her lower back. “He has a pistol.”
Boris kept a tight hold on his arm as they watched Kazakov shove Brianna up a snowy path. Edmond frowned, his gaze briefly lifting toward the onion domes and kokochnik gables of the church. The wooden structure was like any other to be discovered across the Russian countryside. So why the devil had Viktor brought Brianna to this one?
“A church?” Boris muttered the same question echoing through Edmond’s mind.
“He must intend to hide her there so that he can return to St. Petersburg.”
“Then we need merely wait until he leaves. Unless…” Boris’s fingers dug into Edmond’s arm as he turned to meet Edmond’s glittering gaze.
LIKE ALL RUSSIAN ORTHODOX churches, this one was built in a cruciform with the altar placed so that it faced the east. Pretending to stumble over the threshold, Brianna gave herself a moment to cast a quick glance about the small nave.
There were the usual lecterns with icons placed in honor near the front of the church, as well as rows of beeswax candles—a handful that were currently lit—and incense to honor both the icons and the deceased. Unlike European churches, however, there were no pews. The faithful were expected to remain standing in respect, and only the feast-day icon in the center of the nave cluttered the floor.
There was nothing ready at hand to use as a weapon, or even a place to hide, if she could manage to break free of her captor.
As if sensing her hesitation was more than just a bout of awkwardness, Viktor prodded her with the barrel of his pistol.
“Unless you wish to be tossed over my shoulder, you will halt your dawdling,” he warned, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind them.
“I am not dawdling. My limbs are frozen.”
He gave her shoulder a rude shove. “To the altar.”
“The altar?” Brianna glanced toward the wooden Iconostas that separated the nave from the sanctuary. She knew little of Russian churches, but she was aware that the icon screen that possessed three doors to the altar was sacred. By ancient tradition, each door was reserved for specific church officials, and women were never allowed past the screen. “Are you attempting to have me struck down by God?”
Viktor frowned as he pressed her relentlessly forward. “You are an Orthodox?”
“No, but I would rather not tempt fate,” she said, dryly. “Especially not when I have a pistol pressed to my back.”
“No doubt a wise notion. If you do as you are told, you may perhaps live to witness history as it unfolds, after all.”
Brianna stumbled through the Deacon’s door, not having to pretend her lack of grace. She had long before lost any feeling in her feet.
“A pretty way of describing a bloody revolution,” she muttered.
“It always takes blood to purify.”
“I notice it’s not your blood that is offered for the sacrifice.”
“Of course not. It will be the tainted Romanov blood that will wash through the streets. Only then can our glorious empire rise and take its place in the world.”
“With you as the emperor?”
“Perhaps.”
“Charming.”
Halting near the lavish altar, Brianna turned to watch as Viktor Kazakov stopped at her side. Was she to be shot and left to die alone? Or would the traitor possess enough compassion to simply leave her in the church while he returned to St. Petersburg?
Brianna was caught off guard when Kazakov reached beneath his greatcoat and pulled out a coiled length of rope.
“Kneel down,” he commanded.
Brianna took an appalled step backward.
Viktor grasped her upper arm to jerk her back toward him. “As I said, if you do as you are told, there is no reason I must kill you. I do intend, however, to ensure that you are not allowed to raise the alarm before I am well on my way to St. Petersburg.”
“You…you intend to bind me with that rope?” she rasped.
“Obviously you are as clever as you are beautiful,” he mocked.
“Please…” She was forced to halt and clear her throat. “What if Edmond does not follow? With this blizzard, it could be days before anyone returns to this church.”
Viktor reached out to brush a taunting hand over her cheek. “You possess a startling lack of faith in your lover, ma belle.”
She jerked from his touch, her icy skin crawling with distaste.
“I have told you that he has pledged his life to the Czar.”
“Now, tha
t would be a pity,” he said, deliberately uncoiling the rope as he took a step toward her. “No doubt, Edmond would be haunted for the rest of his life with the thought of your poor, frozen body lying on the altar, your beautiful eyes forever etched with futile hope as you awaited your savior.”
“Have you ever thought of taking to the stage?”
The dark eyes flashed with anger at her barely concealed contempt.
“Kneel.”
EDMOND ENTERED THE CHURCH with a skill he had honed over the past decade, slipping over the threshold and swiftly closing the door before a revealing draft could flicker the candles.
Pressed against the wall, he glanced about the empty nave, realizing that Viktor had forced Brianna through the Iconostas.
Why the devil would the man want Brianna at the altar?
Attempting to ignore the growing chill that spread through his body, Edmond cautiously inched his way toward the front of the church, the pungent scent of incense and beeswax assaulting his senses as he neared the wooden screen.
The chill deepened as he shifted to catch a glimpse through the narrow opening.
At first, all he could see was Viktor standing next to the altar, his profile hard with determination and a pistol in his hand. He took another step and he could see Brianna, her tiny body wrapped in a blanket and her face starkly white in contrast to the fiery cloud of hair that tumbled past her shoulders.
It was her expression that made his blood freeze in his veins.
That stubborn, defiant tilt of her chin and grim set of her lush, sensuous lips. She was about to do something incredibly, stunningly stupid.
Even as the thought slid through his mind, he watched in horror as she dropped her blanket and knocked the pistol from Viktor’s grasp. In the same motion she turned and sprinted toward the back of the church.
“Brianna…no,” he shouted as he charged toward Viktor, who was scrambling after the pistol that had slid beneath the altar.
He was just forcing his way through the door of the screen when Viktor wrapped his fingers around the handle of the weapon and lifted it toward Brianna’s fleeing form.
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