He smiled back. “You are a winning character, Sadie Loudon. How could I resist trying on the role of your husband?”
Her flush didn’t just cover her cheeks with a dusty pink. Her neck reddened, too. “You aren’t the first man who wanted to marry me, but you are most handsome, I must admit.”
He glanced through the windows of the compartment. No one was nearby, so he tilted his head, replacing cheek to cheek with lips against lips. Her mouth parted in surprise. He kept the kiss light, almost teasing, but lengthened it voluptuously, until he could feel her breathe against his mouth. She was so healthy, so wholesome, nothing like his tragic Russian mistress, who lived in a town of hovels near the base. He’d been stricken down with cholera, but she had died. His lost Natalia.
Natalia had not expected a wedding from him. He wondered if Glass realized Sadie would expect this false matrimony to become a marriage proposal. A fake wife in England was a lot different than a fake one elsewhere. He’d end up not being able to work here and would need a new foreign posting.
He shuddered at the idea of returning to Russia. An operative posted there wouldn’t live to be old. Not with the likes of Mikhail Lashevich around.
Sadie pulled back from their kiss and stroked his shoulder. “You’re shaking. Poor Les.”
“Emotion, darling. Haven’t you ever met a man who made you quiver?”
She stared at him. Such an innocent, this girl. She’d be convinced he loved her, and was love-desperate enough herself to love him back for that reason alone.
* * *
Sadie was still dazed as they exited the train. The five-arch roof over the vast platforms told her Hull was no provincial outpost, but a bustling transit center. Unfortunately, despite the imposing Italian Renaissance-style building of the station and nearby hotel, the area smelled strongly of fish.
She couldn’t keep her thoughts on the locale though. They kept returning to the man leading her who knew where in this bustling city. She’d had very little exposure to men. A butcher in Bagshot had professed his love, but he wasn’t her social equal. She’d run into one young man repeatedly for about eight months at social events locally and they had flirted a lot, but then his father had inherited some property in the South of England and the entire family had moved away. She’d never heard from the youth again. And then there had been Albert. She was so much more outgoing than her sister that she’d never realized how narrow her experience truly was.
“You remember Semyon?” Les asked as they walked across the street, heading east.
“Of course.”
“His wife lives full-time in Hull and we might encounter them,” Les said. “Let’s pretend to be married again, shall we?”
She played with the ring he’d placed on her finger. “Are you going to pretend to be Russian too?”
He grinned at her. “Why not?”
“Silly man,” she muttered. “I hope this entire exercise isn’t a part of some elaborate scavenger hunt. Kidnap a vicar’s granddaughter or something?”
“Stop playing with the ring,” he said.
She did as he asked, not seeing the value in doing otherwise. Her wages hadn’t been paid yet and she didn’t have the money for a train ticket home. She was trapped. Her concern made her bold. “Are you afraid of Semyon? He seemed a dark character.”
Les gave what sounded like a forced laugh. “More afraid of the women in his life. He wanted me to date his sister. With a face like his, I can only imagine what his sister looks like.”
“Oh, I see. This seems such an elaborate ruse though. What about honesty?”
“Such a vicar’s granddaughter,” he teased. “You want me to tell the man he’s ugly?”
“No, of course not, but pretending things like marriage is only going to tie us into knots.”
“Trust me for today, will you? We’ve sent off your letter to the Grand Russe, and now you have nothing to worry about.” He wrapped his hand around her upper arm. “We’ll find a café and have something to eat without the floor moving under our feet.”
She nodded, not convinced any of this was a good idea, but she’d already committed herself by rashly climbing the steps onto the train in the first place. “That sounds good. I could hardly manage a cup of tea on the train.”
“I noticed. Windy day.”
Her stomach rumbled at the discussion of food. She’d always had a healthy appetite. “A plate of eggs and toast sounds delightful. Then what do you have in mind?”
His nostrils flared as he breathed in. She’d already decided she wouldn’t be breathing too deeply in this port town. Salt air and seaweed were one thing, but she could already smell the decaying fish and fuel, heavy in her lungs.
“Let’s not go toward the river,” she said. “Does it smell better somewhere else?”
“No, they have sewer trouble in the city center,” he told her. “We’re better off down here.”
Two men walked by them, speaking Russian. She realized a cluster of old women with apple-doll faces were probably Russian too.
“Did your grandmother live in Hull?” she asked, realizing he might have wanted to show her his heritage, since he already seemed to be in love with her.
“For a time,” he said. “This is an important connection point to Russia.”
She smiled at him. “I appreciate you sharing your family history with me.”
His gaze was already drifting off. “Why don’t we go to the Ship’s Hound? They have good coffee and borsht.”
“What’s that?”
“A Russian soup.”
* * *
Les played with Sadie’s hand as they sat at a table in front of the window at the Ship’s Hound, drawing circles around her knuckles. She seemed to expect his attention, her hand steady in his. Her demeanor had changed to self-assurance, a woman who was cherished. It wasn’t wearing his ring that had caused the change. She hadn’t acted like this on Saturday night. Was she consciously playing a role?
Sadie pushed her bowl away, her soup only half eaten, and pulled the box with her nesting doll from her handbag. She separated the dolls then put them together, lining the quartet up on the table.
“I hadn’t expected to see you here.”
Les looked up. Semyon stood next to the table, holding a tray. Next to him was a beauty, a slender woman of about thirty, taller than Semyon. This must be Irina. He unpacked his most suave smile and rose. “I was sent up here by my company to sell some magazines.”
“They read in Yorkshire? I hadn’t noticed.” Semyon spoke in Russian.
Les answered in kind. “But there are printers here. Do you know any of them?”
Semyon’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about printers?”
Heart beating fast, Les pulled the flyer he’d retrieved from Sadie from his pocket and handed it to Semyon.
Semyon set down his tray, took the piece of paper, and perused it. “The date is wrong. The rally was changed to today, down on the small wharf by the Albert dock.”
Coal stink instead of fish. There were such better places to live in England. “Did you come up to go to it?”
“Why do you care? You sell to merchants, don’t you? You aren’t a newsboy.”
Les thought fast as Sadie stared at them. “I’m interested in worker’s rights. Do you know how much money my company’s owner has? While I’m all but living on a train, begging for my shillings.”
“Is that why your wife is along?”
His brain continued to churn out answers. While whole fiction was dangerous, the fact that they weren’t married meant everything was a tissue of lies. “We had to set mouse traps last night. She can’t stand to see the poor dead things, so I brought her with me.” Thankfully Sadie didn’t speak a word of Russian.
“A sensitive soul.”
Les nodded. “Yes. You should hear her speak about the atrocious way some dog owners treat their pets. Is this your lovely wife?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Kozyrev.”
Les nodded politely. Se
myon’s wife could scarcely bother to glance at him. She seemed to be fixated on Sadie’s dolls. “Sadie,” he hissed.
His pretend wife glanced up. He pointed at the dolls. “I think Mrs. Kozyrev would like to see your present.”
Sadie gestured politely to the chair across from her at the four seat table. All three of them sat as she turned the painted side of her dolls to face Mrs. Kozyrev.
The older woman picked up each of the four dolls in turn. “I had many of these when I was a child in Russia.” She spoke in English. “I had to leave them all behind.”
“I’m sorry,” Sadie said. “The war?”
The woman shook her head. “No, I only left after Lenin died.”
Sadie radiated empathy. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Russian politics.”
“That is best for wives.” Mrs. Kozyrev’s lips twisted as she took a soup bowl off the tray. “Politics are not a woman’s game. We are too soft-hearted.”
Les glanced between the two women. His gut told him that they were not compatible. Sadie was too fresh and uneducated to appeal to this cosmopolitan refugee. Not like the young wife from Acton who was desperate for a friend. When Glass had given him orders he hadn’t accounted for Sadie’s youth. She was only a chambermaid, after all.
“What time is the rally?” he asked Semyon in Russian.
He responded in kind. “In an hour. Will I see you there?”
Les nodded. “I need to pay a couple of sales calls on bookshops here and then we will go to the docks. Will your wife come along?”
Semyon nodded and took his own bowl of soup off the tray. “She is very political.”
“Mrs. Rake is not educated in these matters.” Les spooned up the last couple bites of his borsht. There likely wouldn’t be time for food later.
“She’ll learn,” Semyon said. “What is her background?”
“Orphan,” Les said, not wanting to reveal more.
“English through and through, right?”
Les nodded and put his and Sadie’s bowls on Semyon’s tray, then poured overbrewed tea from the pot into his empty cup.
“Why did you marry her? Money?”
Les was glad they were still speaking in Russian. He let his gaze peruse the length of the skinny brown bow detail on Sadie’s cream dress. The ribbon slid down her chest between her breasts, revealing their buoyant shape underneath the thin fabric. He glanced back at Semyon, who smirked.
“A young man must have his pleasures,” Semyon said.
“Your wife is very beautiful,” Les told him. Sadie’s eyes went to him. The color matched the stormy sea now. He realized he had missed an exchange between her and Irina Kozyrev. When he glanced next to him he saw Irina was putting the nesting doll together, then, when at last the matryoshka was back together, she put the doll into the gift box and placed the lid on top, then slid it into her handbag.
Shocked, he let his hurt show as he moved his gaze back to Sadie. She shook her head slightly, as if warning him of danger. Next to her, Semyon was devouring his soup. Sadie pushed a plate of brown bread to him and he took a piece without looking up.
Les stared at his erstwhile wife. Had she given Irina the dolls because she was afraid of her, or was there some deeper game? What had the girl sensed about her role here? Irina set her handbag on her lap, her lips curving with genuine satisfaction. With a last look at Les, Sadie deliberately moved her attention to the other woman, smiling. Irina laughed.
Sadie had done the unexpected and turned the assassin’s daughter into an ally, it seemed.
Chapter Four
Sadie watched Irina Kozyrev devour her borscht while she listened to their two companions speak in Russian, a language she had no familiarity with. Les was using his hands a lot when he spoke, something he didn’t do when talking in English. Mrs. Kozyrev had gone from seeming to have no appetite for food at all, to an intense hunger. The woman ate the rest of the bread on the plates too, enough for three people, then drank two cups of tea.
She had a level of acquisitive lust that Sadie had only seen in children, children who were as likely to steal a friend’s doll as to build a friendship just to have access to a favored toy. Unscrupulous, possessive desire.
Sadie had thought it best to make a gift of the doll, rather than find it had been “lost” by the end of the day. She had no idea if Mrs. Kozyrev would appreciate the gesture, or if merely wanting the possession would make it hers in her mind, but these people seemed important to Les. He’d left that Richmond party to follow Semyon on her birthday, and now they’d come some five hours on a train, apparently to follow him again.
She didn’t understand at all, as it seemed to have nothing to do with Les’s job. But her best hope of returning home in one piece was to make whatever Les needed possible, so they could return to the train. Then, when she was safe in Richmond, she could explain that his behavior had been outrageous and he owed her an apology, an explanation, or she’d never see him again.
“Matryoshka,” Mrs. Kozyrev said. “That is what they are called in Russian.”
“The dolls?” Sadie asked.
The woman nodded and poured a third cup of tea. Sadie was thirsty herself, but the pot was empty now.
“I had fine examples of course, not tourist garbage like yours, but still, it was made in my homeland.”
Sadie nodded, years of life as a vicar’s daughter, forced to bow and scrape to wealthy elderly parishioners, accustoming her to casual insults. She glanced over to Les and saw he’d had the same practice. Despite having nothing to eat or do, he looked entirely serene. “Do you think we could have more hot water?” she asked him.
He jumped to his feet, lifting the tray from the center of the table. She appreciated his athleticism. The fabric of his trousers stretched across powerful thighs whenever he moved. He had large feet, which made him seem more firmly planted into the earth than most men, but despite that, he moved with grace. She had loved dancing with him, kissing him, but his character had an air of danger that kept her on edge.
After he returned with the water, they passed another twenty minutes with the Kozyrevs, chatting lightly about Russian art, about which Sadie knew nothing. Then Semyon tapped his watch and Les pushed back his chair.
“We are going to take a walk,” Les said. “There is a meeting we’d like to attend.”
“What about your work?” Sadie asked.
“I can stop in at one bookshop on the way,” he said, glancing at Semyon. The other man nodded. “That will appease my employer.”
“Then what?”
“Back on the train. You have to work in the morning.”
She nodded. “Thank you for remembering.”
“Absolutely.”
“I must have something to do when you travel,” she said, aware that two sets of Kozyrev eyes were on them, and that they were pretending to be married for reasons she did not understand. Her best idea now would be to pat his hand or offer some other kind of familiarity, but she had no easy way to reach him since he was across the table with Semyon.
“Very well,” Semyon turned to Les and said in accented English. “If you must do your work, you need to leave now. We do not want to miss the speeches.”
Mrs. Kozyrev rolled her eyes, and Sadie realized she was not going to enjoy this outing at all.
“Stay with us,” Semyon ordered. “Let your husband do his work. We will meet him at the dock.”
Sadie’s eyes went wide. She looked at Les, assuming he’d protest, but he was already standing, pulling his coat on. He couldn’t leave her in an unfamiliar town in Yorkshire with strangers!
But he could, and he did. He walked around the table, bussed her cheek, and said, “See you soon.” His eyes did not meet hers as he spoke to Semyon rapidly in Russian. She only recognized the name of a railway company, then he strode out of the door, swinging his magazine case.
Semyon leaned forward and said something to his wife. She lifted the teapot and poured fresh tea for all three
of them. He took out a flask and doctored his tea and his wife’s. Sadie waved away the alcohol and stared glumly at the table. She wondered if she should send a cable to her grandfather now, asking for help.
Something told her, though, that she could trust Lester Rake. Why, she couldn’t say. Something about his eyes, the way his gaze was so steady on her. Inside him was an unflappable place and she had to trust that no matter how crazy things seemed. She’d only known him a few days but she felt safe with him. Les, yes, but not Semyon, and definitely not his wife. She wasn’t going anywhere with them but to this wharf where the railway company had its warehouse.
“There must be a toy store here for Russians,” Mrs. Kozyrev said. “That would have more dolls.”
Sadie stared into her cup as Semyon responded to his wife in Russian, twirling the last half inch of dark tea inside, wishing she could read her tea leaves and see what her future held. She tilted her head this way and that, trying to see shapes in the matted leaves.
“Do you know Hull?” the other woman asked, her voice coming back to the forefront.
Sadie showed her the contents of her teacup. “Does that look like a glove to you?”
Mrs. Kozyrev regarded her like she was a spider building a web on a lace curtain. She leaned forward. “Do you know Hull?” she repeated.
Sadie felt slapped. Who did this woman think she was? “No.” Her voice was clipped, a rebuke.
“There must be a telephone subscriber list, or some kind of directory,” she said, as if hoping Sadie would find one for her.
“My husband won’t need much of a head start,” Sadie said, pushing back her chair. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
Semyon stared at her blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Why did you come to Hull?”
She took a moment to translate his heavy accent. “I hadn’t planned on it. But my Les, he brought me along.”
“You work at a hotel?”
“Yes.” She felt the desire to be as unimportant as possible to this man, so she didn’t mention her exciting opportunity. “I’m one of the masses toiling. At the Richmond Inn.”
“Your husband, his accent.” Semyon grunted. “England is so class conscious. You do not seem his equal.”
I Wanna Be Loved by You Page 5