A Midnight Clear
K. C. Bateman
Contents
Chapter 1
Afterword
Also by K. C. Bateman
About the Author
Chapter 1
It wasn’t every day a princess found herself in a brothel.
Princess Tatiana Denisova glanced around the small but sumptuously-decorated room and smiled. She could only imagine what her father would say if he ever discovered she’d spent the night in a house of ill-repute. He’d be furious. Her brother Pavel, of course, would think it a fine joke. And his best friend, the irritatingly handsome Aleksandr Orlov, would no doubt make one of his dry, scathing comments and tease her about it endlessly.
She wasn’t thinking of him.
Tatiana wasn’t the only traveler who’d been forced to take refuge in here. Frau Klaus’s front parlor was crammed with unexpected guests, from every level of the social strata, all making the best of the situation. The weather was a great leveler; everyone was in equal need of warmth and cheer and comfort. An air of festive conviviality had settled on the disparate group, their closeness fostered by the shared adventure. The sound of laughter and the hum of conversation trickled up through the floorboards.
Tatiana had arrived in Dover this morning, but the private coach she’d hired to take her to London had only managed to crawl the nineteen miles to Canterbury before the driver had abandoned the journey because of the snow.
Tatiana had suppressed her snort of impatience; she’d seen far worse in her Russian homeland, but the English had never encountered such deep drifts, apparently, and were ill-equipped to deal with it. If only they had troikas here. The sturdy Russian sleds would have made light work of the journey.
They were lucky to have found somewhere warm to stay for the night; every respectable inn they’d tried had been full. Tatiana had feared that she and her maid Elizaveta would have to bed down with the animals in some barn. A local had suggested they try Klaus Haus. Tatiana had been so cold and tired that she would have stayed in an inn owned by the Devil himself, if it was warm, but Frau Klaus had proved the kindest of hosts.
The human capacity for both cruelty and kindness always amazed Tatiana. Here was a fine example of the latter; a madam, Frau Klaus, one of society’s most denigrated members, freely offering hospitality to strangers. Tatiana could think of several duchesses who would have refused to help, even if they’d had a hundred bedrooms to spare.
She glanced out of the window at the snowy street. England was certainly strange. The architecture was odd, but not displeasing, and the people were curious and forthright. She could speak the language easily enough, and French too—father had spared no expense in her education—but judging from the strange looks she’d received from the locals, she must still sound a little foreign, despite her efforts to blend in. Perhaps Frau Klaus, whose own accent proclaimed a German heritage, had recognized a fellow exile.
“I’m going downstairs,” Tatiana told her maid.
Elizaveta, already half-asleep on the bed and buried under a mound of blankets, merely mumbled.
The delicious scent of mulled wine and spiced gingerbread drew Tatiana down the stairs and into the crowded front parlor. She nodded to several of those already assembled, but a dark-haired young woman was in the midst of telling a tale, so formal introductions were impossible.
Tatiana relished the anonymity. The name of Denisov was famous in Russia, but here no-one reacted to it with deference and awe. Her grandfather had been a successful merchant and industrialist, and her father had increased the family fortune. Her mother had been lady-in-waiting to the Empress Catherine herself.
Tatiana’s wealth had attracted a string of unsuitable suitors over the years, but she’d staunchly refused them all. Only one man had ever made her heart twist in her chest and she—
Wasn’t thinking about him.
The fact that Aleksandr Orlov would be in London with her brother was not the reason she was going.
Not entirely the reason, anyway.
Both Aleks and her brother Pavel had commanded mounted Cossack units against the French invader Bonaparte. They’d survived the infamous battle of Borodino, two years ago, and had beaten the French army all the way back to Paris.
Tzar Alexander had entered the city in March, and with Bonaparte now safely in exile on Elba, father had deemed it safe for Tatiana to visit Pavel in Paris. Paris, however, had yielded a frustrating letter from her brother saying that despite receiving a minor wound, he’d decided to travel on to London.
The dark-haired girl finished her story to an appreciative round of applause and Frau Klaus stepped into the circle of firelight. The feathers in her extraordinary green-and-gold turban bobbed as she nodded her head. “Thank you!”
She turned laughing blue eyes toward Tatiana and raised her brows. “And now, perhaps, you would like to provide us with a tale, my dear? One from your homeland?”
Tatiana nodded, but her stomach pitched with nerves. She didn’t like speaking in public, but it would be churlish to refuse. Telling a story was a small price to pay in exchange for a warm room and a soft bed. She stepped into the center of the room, and a host of eager faces all turned in her direction.
“Good evening. My name is Tatiana and I have recently come from Paris, and before that, the great Russian city of St Petersburg.”
Tatiana racked her brains for a suitable story to tell. Many of the Russian fairytales were dark and depressing. This wasn’t a night for a tale like that.
“In Russia we have many folk tales, some of which are so terrifying that you fear going out in the dark, while others are so sad you think your heart will break in two.”
She glanced around at the wide eyes and rosy cheeks and smiled. She had their rapt attention. “But this one, I think, is good for such a snowy night. It concerns our very own Russian ice maiden, a beautiful girl made out of snow, whose name is Snegurochka. Sneg is the Russian word for snow. She wears a long silver-blue robe edged with arctic fox fur, and a crown made of snowflakes.”
Several of the women nodded, as if picturing the fashionable ensemble in their minds.
“Snegurochka was the daughter of Spring the Beauty and Ded Moroz, old Father Frost. She was immortal, but lonely, and she longed for the companionship of humans. She used to spy on every human she could find, and in time she fell in love with a shepherd boy named Lel.”
Tatiana paused. Several of the audience were leaning forward, eager to hear the rest of the tale. “There are several versions of this story, and they differ in what happens next. In some tales the very act of falling in love warms Snegurochka’s heart so much that she melts and disappears in a puff of water vapor.”
One of the younger women gasped at the prospect of such a sad ending, and Tatiana held up her hand to reassure her.
“But another ending has it that falling in love does not kill the Princess. Instead she falls into a deep decline because she knows she can never be with her mortal love. Her mother, Spring, asks whether she would forfeit her immortality to be with Lel, and the snow maiden answers without hesitation; “Yes, yes of course! I’d rather live a short and happy life with Lel than spend eternity without him.” Seeing the depth of her daughter’s love, Spring grants Snegurochka her wish. The Snow Maiden becomes mortal and marries her shepherd, and they live a long and happy life together.”
Several sighs, and a round of applause followed and Tatiana smiled around at the assembly. No matter what country you were in, the human need for stories never changed. Everyone had the desire for a happy ending, a promise that even in the dead of winter, spring would surely come.
She made her way back to the edge of the room. If only she’d found her true love, like Snegurochka. But
the man she’d always wanted acted like he hated her most of the time. Aleksandr Orlov had stolen her heart and held it hostage against her will.
Enough was enough. When she saw him in London she would lay all her cards on the table and tell him what she felt for him. Love was greater than pride.
Admittedly, telling him would be a gamble that might well end in heartbreak. If he felt nothing for her she’d be devastated, but at least she would know once and for all. Painful honesty was better than pretending he reciprocated her feelings.
Suddenly in need of solitude, Tatiana slipped out of the room and went to stand by the back door, where an icy breeze whistled through the gap between wood and frame.
As if to rebel against the wintry conditions outside, her thoughts turned to the spring day on which she’d said goodbye to Aleksandr. Blossoms had been falling from the cherry trees, and the air had been filled with the promise that something exciting was going to happen.
She’d loved and loathed her brother’s best friend in equal measure for years. He’d always had a snide comment or quelling put-down. Ever since she could remember he’d tugged on her braids, played tricks on her, tossed her new red shoes in the stream, stolen her favorite comb. She’d thrown a rock and hit his temple once, in retaliation. He still bore the scar.
As they’d grown older a new awareness had bloomed between them. They’d sparred and sniped with words instead of sticks, and Tatiana had grown more wary. There was a glittering danger about Aleks now, a burning heat in his gaze whenever she turned her head too fast and caught him watching her.
Usually he’d look away quickly, but sometimes he would hold her gaze for the space of countless heartbeats, and the look in his eyes was as confusing as it was frightening. He glared at her; not quite with hate, but with a kind of dark fury, frustration, hunger. It made her skin heat and her stomach coil.
Another few years, and her friend Elizaveta had provided the astonishing answer; he desired her, but he didn’t want to desire her. And he would never do anything about it, however much Tatiana wished he would. This, in turn, had brought about an astonishing revelation about her own feelings. She didn’t hate Aleksandr Orlov at all.
She loved him.
Before she could decide what to do about this incredible fact, Aleks and her brother had left for war. Tatiana had stood on the front steps of their summer palace near St Petersburg determined to be to be brave despite the dreadful sick churning in her stomach. She would see them off without breaking down in tears. Aleksandr Orlov would not see her cry. He’d mock her endlessly when he returned.
If he returned.
Tatiana clutched at her skirts. Oh, God. Either one of them could be killed. And while she still hated him—mostly—the thought of him dying in some stupid battle and never coming back to make her life a misery was not one she wanted to contemplate.
Pavel and Aleksander walked their horses around from the stables. They both looked so grown-up in their uniforms. Tatiana raced down the remaining steps and threw herself into her brother’s arms before he could mount his horse. She hugged Pavel close, scolded him with demands that he return home unscathed—and he made promises both of them knew he couldn’t be certain of keeping.
And then she’d pulled out of his arms and turned to Aleks, suddenly uncertain of what to say or do. Should she shake his hand? She felt heat burn her cheeks as his wicked mouth curled upwards at the corners.
With his dark hair and even darker eyes, he was so handsome her heart almost stopped. Add in his easy charm—with everyone except her—and it was no wonder he was such a favorite at court. Tatiana quashed a surge of hot jealousy as she imagined all the mistresses, affairs, and intrigues he was doubtless leaving behind in his wake.
She ignored the breathless feeling being near him always gave her, cleared her throat, and lifted her chin. “Come home safe, Orlov,” she demanded in her best imperious voice. She extended her hand to shake and he looked down at it then back up at her face with a quirk of his eyebrows.
“So formal, Princess?” he mocked softly. “You’ve always been so bossy. You’ll command me to stay alive next.”
She bit her lip. “Of course,” she tried to keep her tone light despite the heavy feeling in her chest. “You will stay alive. If you die, I shall be extremely put out.”
“I thought you’d glad to see the back of me.”
Far from it.
Pavel mounted his horse and started to ride away, but Aleks restrained his own mount with a firm hand on the bridle. Tatiana could feel the heat of the horse, smell the sweet scents of leather, hay, and him. His was an irresistible scent she craved almost beyond reason.
He reached out and took her outstretched hand and she almost jerked away at the jolt of awareness that shimmered through her. It happened whenever they touched; animosity mingled with anticipation.
He did not release her. With a sudden tug he jerked her towards him and, caught off-guard, she fell forward against his chest. She glared up at him for the trick.
“There’s one more thing I have to do before I go,” his eyes glittered wickedly. “I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t do this.”
He slid his hand around to cup the back of her neck.
Tatiana froze.
He held her gaze, daring her to pull back even as he brought his lips to within a hairs-breadth of her own.
She swayed, suddenly unsteady. Her whole body felt as if it were being pulled upwards, towards him, like a magnet.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been kissed before. She had. Several times, in fact, and they’d been pleasant enough—chaste pecks that had left her happy and flattered and ever-so-slightly disappointed, wondering if there wasn’t something, well . . . more.
Here was the more.
Aleksander Orlov kissed her as if the world was ending. As if all he needed, and all he would ever need, was his lips on hers. Tatiana could only marvel at his skill. The world slipped away, time ceased to exist. There was only the pressure of his mouth, the persuasive stroke of his tongue against hers. The sweet mingling of their breath. It was, quite literally, heaven.
And then, in a heartbeat, it was over.
Aleks pulled back, put his boot into the stirrup, and mounted his horse before Tatiana could even draw a breath. He took one final glance down at her and his lips straightened into a tight line. “Goodbye Ana.”
He turned his horse and galloped down the road.
Tatiana had been haunted by that blasted kiss for two whole years.
A smatter of applause from the parlor recalled her to where she was. Canterbury, not Moscow. A brothel, not a palace. The tinkle of musical notes indicated that one of the guests had decided to play the ancient pianoforte she’d seen in one corner, and a haunting carol floated out from the doorway.
It came upon a midnight clear—
Still heated from the memory of Aleks’ kiss, Tatiana grabbed one of the rough woolen cloaks that hung on the pegs beside her and shrugged it over her shoulders. Her own cloak was upstairs—it was just like that of the snow maiden, ice blue edged with silver fur.
She tugged open the door and stepped out into the snow-covered garden.
The white crust crunched beneath her feet and she inhaled deeply, enjoying the perverse burn in her lungs. She could almost imagine ice crystals forming inside her, needling and prickling. When she let out her breath a dragon-puff cloud enveloped her face.
It was till snowing. Downy flakes drifted down, the sweep of white muffling all sound.
The world in solemn stillness lay—
A distant clock struck the hour of eleven and Tatiana became aware of another noise; the crunch of a horse’s hooves. She turned toward the garden gate and her heart seized as she caught sight of a single masculine figure approaching on horseback.
She blinked against the snowflakes that had caught on her lashes and blurred her vision. That great-coated figure looked horribly familiar. Broad shoulders
outlined by pale moonlight. Military greatcoat. Russian-style hat. Her heart began to beat at double the usual rate. Nobody else rode a horse as fluidly as that, as if they’d been born in the saddle.
Good Lord, it was Aleks.
But how? And what on earth was he doing here of all places?
Tatiana closed her eyes and desperately tried to will him away. She’d wanted to see him, yes, but on her terms. She’d planned on donning her finest dress, her most glittering jewels. She would sweep into some London ballroom and he’d be so dazzled he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her. He’d realize what a fool he’d been to let her go. He’d seek her out and—
She lost her nerve. She turned in a flurry of cape and tried to make a dash for the back door.
“Tatiana! Stop!”
She muttered a curse under her breath, any hope that he might not have recognized her dashed by that deep, imperious voice. She turned back around with a sinking sense of inevitability.
He dismounted and tied his horse to the gate. And then he was striding towards her, boots crunching purposefully on the snow. His face was in shadow, almost hidden by his hat.
He advanced until he was a few feet away and then tugged the hat from his head and ran his fingers through his hair. The light from the windows allowed Tatiana to see him clearly and her eyes devoured him, noting the difference two years had wrought.
He looked thinner, tougher, his cheekbones and jaw a little more harshly defined, but still handsome enough to make her break out in a cold sweat. It was such a relief, to confirm with her own eyes that he was still alive.
A ball of joy, and tenderness, and fury formed in her chest. How dare he scare her so, by putting himself into danger again and again? How dare he be so bloody heroic? How dare he show up here, without warning, looking so irresistible when she, no doubt, looked tired and wind-swept and travel-stained? She didn’t know whether to hit him or to throw herself into his arms and kiss him senseless.
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