by The Countess
"Krylenko!" Dmitri ejaculated. "I was right after all. Was he dead when you found him?"
"Yes."
Dmitri's mouth tightened.
"Bury him some place away from her, he must never be found; but keep the boots. I intend to ram those down the Major's throat."
He listened in a cold silence as Sergei described the scene he had just left. He had stayed only long enough to dig graves for the dead and to push some clothes into his saddlebags for Alexandreya.
"Send a man back to St. Petersburg," Dmitri ordered. "I want to know why young Bruckner failed to catch up with the coach. If I am right in my suspicions, you will probably find he is missing from the barracks. If so, contact our man in the fortress add find out if there have been any new arrivals these past few days."
"Do you think the Major intended to have his own wife murdered?" Sergei asked.
"Yes, but I am puzzled as to why it was necessary to include the Countess - he is usually more subtle."
Sergei's eyes narrowed sharply as an unpleasant thought struck him. It would do no harm to keep an eye on Madame de Veaux for a while.
"I will go myself. Will you wait for me here?"
Dmitri looked back at the hunting lodge with a curt nod.
"God knows what condition she will be in when she wakes. I'll wait here and then we'll go on to Peterhof. I'm going to place her under Catherine's protection. Be quick, my friend."
"Yes, Colonel. I will."
An agonising scream echoed again and again through Alexandreya's tortured mind, dragging her into wakefulness. She started up, covering her ears in an attempt to shut out the raucous sound before realising it had come from her own lips. From the makeshift bed of skins before the fire where he had been dozing, Dmitri leapt to her side and began to calm her.
"Don't be afraid, little one, it was only a dream. There, there." He drew her face against his shoulder, stroking her hair with a gentleness which amazed her when she recalled it to mind the following day. "Hush now, go back to sleep."
He smoothed the hair away from her face. The pallor of her tear-streaked face alarmed him, and only with a great effort did he stop himself kissing her. Her eyes closed, veiling the terror mirrored there. Dmitri settled her back in the bed, arranging the pillows and tucking the homespun sheets around her shoulders.
Reluctantly he moved from her side, his bare feet making no sound on the stone floor. Sleep was beyond him now, he would sit by the fire and await Sergei's return. Dmitri had sent a man to the palace at Peterhof, conveying a message for the ears of Catherine alone. He wanted no one yet to know Alexandreya was not dead as planned, not until he was sure of complete protection for her.
The firelight flickered over his half-stripped body as he reached for his shirt. The firm, muscular chest bore many scars from past fighting, but none so distinct or dreadful as those which seared his back, white and angry in the brilliance of the flames.
A startled gasp from behind sent him wheeling about, tensing. Alexandreya's eyes were open again and intent on him.
"What is it, little one?"
"Those marks. Those awful marks, what happened to you?"
Dmitri pulled on his shirt with a tight smile, wishing with all his heart she had not seen them.
"They were a present - a parting present from a lady," he replied. "Go back to sleep."
Alexandreya was not sure she had heard correctly. It was so difficult to keep awake.
"A lady," she echoed. "No woman in her right mind could ever do such a thing."
Dmitri had no intention of filling in the unpleasant details, the bitter memory would only arouse old grudges. He wanted nothing more to come between them.
"Go to sleep, dushka."
It was easy to be gentle with her now, to call her darling, knowing full well that in the morning she would not remember. A soft sigh escaped her and she was asleep again.
Alexandreya did not awake until well after midday. She felt drained of all strength still and unconsolably miserable. For a long while she lay unmoving in the great bed, her tears soaking the rough pillow beneath her cheek. Natasha was dead. She repeated the words over and over in her mind, but was unable to accept it was really true. Perhaps it was a dream - Her eyes flew to the hearth, to the pile of furs and skins thrown in one corner. No, it was reality. Dmitri had slept there last night, to be on hand if she needed him, and he had held her in his arms and comforted her. Her trust had not been misplaced. With him she was safe and he had proved he was her friend, despite his behaviour in St. Petersburg.
Alexandreya sat up and found, to her surprise, she was not alone. A petite, rosy-cheeked woman was standing at the foot of the bed, holding a tray.
"Who are you?"
"Irina, my lady." The woman dropped a curtsey and came to her side. "I have brought your dinner."
"Is it that late?" Alexandreya did not realise that she had been asleep for eleven hours.
"It is three o'clock. I had orders not to awaken you before this."
Someone had taken great care in the preparation of the food. Alexandreya ate deliciously tender pheasant cooked in wine, but refused the assorted fruit on the silver tray and instead drank a glass of cool goat's milk. Afterwards she felt infinitely better.
"Would you care for a bath, my lady?" Irina asked when she collected the tray. The village woman was only too willing to be of some service, and Alexandreya's heart ached as she thought of Anya.
"Yes, I would."
Irina went away, to return dragging behind her a large metal tub. It was the most primitive thing Alexandreya had ever seen, but in her present frame of mind she cared little for the appearance as long as it served a useful purpose.
She nursed her aching limbs in plain hot water. There were no perfumes to scent it or to rub into her body when she emerged. Her skin was dried by a homespun towel that made the bruises stand out with startling clarity. The woman helped her into a sombre-coloured dress, probably one of her own, Alexandreya realised, and, remembering the torn condition of her own clothing, she said nothing.
Irina was unable to dress the long, fiery tresses with Anya's skill, and eventually Alexandreya had her tie it back with a ribbon. Her appearance was not important; this was a time of mourning.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon curled up on the couch reading. Dmitri sought her out only long enough to tell her he was leaving the lodge for several hours and on no account was she to venture outside. His manner was gentle but firm, and she agreed, too weary to argue. He gave her no indication why it was necessary for him to leave, realising that any reference to her dead sister could have disastrous results. Alexandreya followed him to the door and seeing Sergei waiting, she looked enquiringly at Dmitri, but something in his face forbade questions. In silence she turned back into the lodge.
Two miles from the hunting-lodge, well hidden among the trees, Dmitri watched the evening shadows lengthen across the forest trail below him. He sat astride his horse in silence, staring grimly along the route Madeleine de Veaux was sure to use. He had not gone to dine with her, but instead had sent a message requesting she should join him at his forest retreat. It was an invitation he knew she would find hard to refuse, and he was gambling on her curiosity being aroused sufficiently to accept.
It had been a shock to learn that she was behind the attempt on Alexandreya's life, forcing Dmitri to admit he had underestimated the enemy. His hatred knew no bounds as he considered how near Alexandreya had been to death. She had suffered unmercifully during the past few days, and for that, someone was going to pay with equal discomfort.
Vladimir Krylenko was out of his reach, but not so Madeleine. The time had come to call her to account for her crimes. Her life was a small pittance compared to all the men she had betrayed, but it was a beginning. When Catherine came to the throne, he would have the pleasurable opportunity of dispatching his arch enemy to join his female Judas.
"Someone is coming." Beside Dmitri, Sergei was listening
intently. "Two horses, no more."
The remained where they were, watching the trail. Two riders came into view, cantering along at a leisurely pace. One of them was clearly a woman, and Dmitri's mouth tightened.
"Come up behind them and dispose of the servant," he ordered the Tartar. "I want no one running to the Major with news of this night's work."
"It would be as quick to slit her throat too and be done with it," Sergei said. "Why soil your hands on her, Colonel? I will deal with them both."
"This I must attend to myself," he said, shaking his head.
"Will you go back to the Countess with blood on your hands?" Sergei asked with a fierce frown. He was beginning to wish he had killed her after Captain Shvorin had left the house. Crouched outside a window, the Tartar had heard an account of the whole ghastly business, including the death of Andre Bruckner. Under the most hideous tortures, he had broken down and confessed to treason, implicating Natasha beyond a shadow of doubt.
"If I must. It is for her sake I am here."
Dmitri spurred his horse down the slope to avoid further comment. Madeleine's death sooner or later was an accepted fact in his mind, he was merely hastening the inevitable. She was a beautiful, evil traitress who used her looks and body to further her ambitions, regardless of the lives lost in the process. It was not for the sake of his dead friends, however, that Dmitri rode out to kill her, but for the innocent, grief-stricken girl resting in his hunting-lodge.
There appeared to be no light when Dmitri reined in his horse before the lodge several hours later. He hurried up the steps, his hand on his sword, and pushed open the door. The fire was built high in the hearth, illuminating the room with its glow. The table was laid for dinner. Curled up in his armchair, Alexandreya slept soundly. She still wore the dark peasant dress, her hair loose about her shoulders, partly shadowing the pale, serene face. Softly he stole past her and went into the bedroom.
Alexandreya awoke to find the room bright with candlelight. Irinia was setting out food on the table.
"Has Colonel Varanov returned?" She sprang to her feet, smoothing the creases from her skirt.
"Nearly an hour ago, my lady. Will you eat now?" The question was directed, not at Alexandreya, but at Dmitri, who at that moment stepped out of his room. He wore dark grey breeches and matching shirt, open at the neck. A brilliant white silk cravat was tied at his throat, which accentuated the swarthiness of his skin. He looked strangely formal, and Alexandreya felt her heart miss a beat.
"Yes, Irina, if the Countess is ready." He looked across to where she stood.
She nodded and quickly seated herself in the chair he pulled out for her.
"You should not have allowed me to sleep," Alexandreya protested. "It was terribly rude of me."
"You were tired," Dmitri answered sitting opposite her. "It has done you good, there is some colour in your cheeks now and your eyes are brighter too."
Alexandreya ate her food, conscious of a sudden intimacy between them. It made her feel uneasy and she found herself withdrawing from the conversation, afraid of a sarcastic remark to ruin the pleasantness of the evening.
"Sergei brought some of your clothes from the wreck, but they were muddy and Irina had to wash them. They will be dry soon." Dmitri leaned back in his chair when the meal was over and smiled across at her. "I prefer you in something simple. Women place too high a value on such unimportant things, and often they look like ..."
"Overdressed coquettes?" Alexandreya interrupted.
His face flushed with colour. It was the first time she had ever seen him embarrassed.
"Will you never forgive me?"
"The words I can forget, Colonel, it is the rest."
"I was wrong and I apologise. How else can I make amends? Tell me?"
Alexandreya was quiet, not sure if he was merely being kind to her. An apology was completely out of character.
"You wished for an apology and I have given it," Dmitri said amusedly. "What do you suspect me of now?"
"It - I - I am surprised," she stammered.
"Life is full of surprises, learn to accept them without questions, it is the only way." He rose and came around to where she sat. "The last time we dined together, you left me at an unforgivably early hour and with a full bottle of brandy. Will you join me by the fire now and finish this bottle?"
Alexandreya rose, placing her hand in his.
"Yes, Colonel, I will."
CHAPTER SEVEN
They sat on opposite sides of the fireplace, Alexandreya on the couch and Dmitri seated in the armchair, his long legs stretched out before him. He filled their glasses and sat back, studying her as she stared into the flames. What a magnificent picture she made with her red hair streaming past her shoulders. He found himself thinking of his home, and the sister who had died of a fever at the tender age of eighteen. Alexandreya reminded him of her, and of the way they used to sit together as children. There was nothing left of the old house now, no members of his family alive to carry on his name and serve the Empress when he was dead. It was an empty feeling. He refilled his glass for the second time and leaned towards Alexandreya.
"Let me pour you more brandy."
Alexandreya's fingers closed over the top of her glass. Her eyes met his and the mockery in them made her quickly look away, knowing that he had read her mind.
"You are quite safe with me tonight," Dmitri said quietly.
Ashamedly she looked up into his face and slowly held out her glass. Whatever else he had done, he had never lied to her.
"Drink up, the bottle is still half full. Try and forget what has happened, for a few hours at least," he added.
"I have tried," Aiexandreya confessed, "but it is not easy. Be honest with me, Colonel Varanov. Do you think you will ever find those terrible men?"
"Yes. I swear I shall deal with them personally."
Dmitri was on the verge of telling her the truth, then he hesitated. It was too soon and he wanted to allay her fears, not further them. She had to feel safe at Peterhof, which she would not if he told her about Madeleine and the part Vladimir Krylenko had played.
"Thank God," Alexandreya said, with a deep sigh. "You must think me very rude, Colonel, I have not yet thanked you for your help. I am in your debt."
Dmitri tossed a gnarled log on to the fire and watched the flames lick around it hungrily. At length he looked up, smiling as if her words amused him, yet his eyes were quite serious.
"What value do you place on your life, Countess?"
"I have no idea. I did not even realise how important it was to me until that man wanted to take it from me. You know I am wealthy. Whatever price you ask, I shall pay it."
Dmitri's expression darkened, and immediately she knew to have suggested payment was as big an insult as if she had thrown his peasant background in his face.
"What if money is not enough?"
He watched her stiffen and saw her lips tremble. With great restraint he quelled the urge to reach out and take her in his arms.
"Allow me to put your mind at rest," he murmured. "I want nothing from you unless it is freely given, and somehow I do not consider I stand a chance in that direction. For a mad moment I wanted to hurt you as I have all the others. It is hard for me to accept you are not like them - in time I will. You must be patient with me. I respect you more than any other woman I have ever known, but I have no intention of making the same mistake twice, mala koska. If you believe I respect you, then we can be friends."
Alexandreya was silent, thrilled by his words, although she dared not admit it. The sincerity in his voice, his expression, was unquestionable.
"I do, Colonel," she said. Respect was not love, but it was a beginning.
She held out her glass and it was replenished. She was feeling the effects of the brandy. The warmth of it stealing through her body relaxed her limbs, and was slowly blotting out the horrors present in her mind. For the first time she forgot Vladimir Krylenko and even her sister.
"Tell me about the woman you loved," she said quietly. She had been gathering her courage to broach the subject all evening. To her surprise he made no attempt to evade the subject.
"Her name was Elena and she lived in Moscow." Dmitri's tone was suddenly bitter. It would be many more years before he could speak of her without being possessed by an intense feeling of hatred. "I met' her five years ago, although sometimes it seems like an eternity."
Looking into the lovely face of the girl before him, he regretted past affairs and the multitude of women who had passed through his life. None of them had come to mean so much as this one at his side. He had taken nothing from her - she had given nothing, yet he wanted her.
Was it love? He asked himself the question many times since the encounter with Madeleine. If it was not, why had he made no attempt to make love to her. He wanted to touch her, to hold her body close against his and smell the perfume of her hair as he had done once before. She had surrendered then, she might this evening, then he could put all thought of love out of his mind and enjoy her for the moment.
"You are still in love with her." Alexandreya lay watching him from the couch, her head resting on several cushions. Mistakenly she believed him to be thinking of his past love.
"The woman I loved did not exist." Dmitri shook his head. "No, I feel no worthwhile emotion for her now, not even regret. There had been only one other before her, a girl from my village. I will not pretend love entered into that relationship, but when I met Elena, ah, that was different. I was a newly promoted lieutenant, bored and lonely in a society which barred its doors to me whenever Elizabeth turned her back. Elena accepted me as a man, or so I thought at the time. It was not until I asked her to marry me that I realised I had only been a source of amusement. Her friends called me her tame Cossack because I was too blind with love to see what I had become. After five short months she grew tired of me, and when I asked her to be my wife, she had her servants thrash me insensible for such impertinence and throw me out into the street."