Cecilia tried not to awkwardly gape at his exposed chest. “Do you speak English, sir?”
Enigmatic eyes, whose color she still couldn’t make out in the shadows, met hers from beneath the rim of his wool cap. He lowered his hands and to her complete astonishment, he offered in well-educated English, “I do. Were you looking for conversation?” His low, husky voice was surprisingly sophisticated and laced with a heavy Russian accent that penetrated not only the walls of the carriage but every inch of her skin.
It was like she had never heard a man speak before. It was unbelievably sensuous and made her feel as if he was thinking about doing things to her. Her throat tightened. “Were you touching me whilst I slept?”
He shifted his jaw, a teasing gleam flickering in his eyes. “Not in that way. I prefer my women to remember what I do.”
She pressed herself to the opposite side of the seat, setting as much distance between them. She couldn’t breathe knowing she was alone with some Russian wielding a dagger and that her travelling companion was somewhere back in the last village. Or the last three villages, for all she knew.
She had to speak to the driver.
Frantically snatching up her reticule from the seat beside her, Cecilia turned and thwacked the glass window several times. “Driver?” she called out as loud as she could. “Stop the coach, please. Stop the coach!”
A large calloused hand grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand and reticule from hitting the window again. “Ey.” He leaned in closer in reprimand, revealing the sharpening green of his eyes. “What are you doing? I have a schedule to keep.”
Between uneven breaths, Cecilia clutched her beaded reticule higher between them with a trembling hand, signaling to him that she was ready to bash his brains out with every last bead in its stitch. “If you touch me again, sir, I will hurt you and your schedule. I am trying to speak to the driver. Now let go of me!” She shook her reticule toward him for good measure.
Those green eyes brightened. He released her wrist. “How charming. You wish to threaten my life with a reticule.” He leaned in and lowered his voice dramatically. For effect. “If you put a few rocks in it, dorogaya moya, I guarantee it will work much better.”
He removed his cap, causing his dark hair to cascade onto his forehead. “I doubt the driver speaks any English. Few people in Russia do. Only the upper classes know the language. Fortunately for you, my father taught me how to speak it incredibly well. He had often told me, if it were not for my Russian accent and my incredible good looks, I could have easily been British.” He smiled. “Can I be of service to you?”
This one thought he had a sense of humor. She lowered her reticule back into her lap, trying to focus and stay calm. “Is this your carriage?”
“No.” Leaning back against the seat, he flicked the peeling upholstery with a bare finger. “I can assure you, I have far better taste than this.” He tilted his head toward her. “This is a public stagecoach. Did you not know that when you paid your fare?”
Her eyes widened. How had she ended up on a public stagecoach? Where was the carriage she had originally hired?
He paused. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes!” She gestured frantically toward the empty seat across from them. “My travelling companion is missing! Have you seen her? And do you know how I got to be here? Because I…I don’t remember.” She tried to keep her voice calm lest she fall into hysterics.
The carriage jostled against the uneven grooves of the muddy road before settling into an even, swaying rhythm.
He shifted toward her. “How can you not remember?” His brows came together. “You were already on this stagecoach when I boarded hours ago.”
She blinked. “Hours ago? Was anyone with me?”
“No. Not when I boarded.”
She almost fainted. What had happened to Mrs. Bogdanovich? And why couldn’t she remember getting into the coach after her meal at the inn?
“You slept the whole while and kept nestling into my lap no matter what I did.” He patted his thigh to demonstrate where she had rested. “I eventually stopped moving you off my lap and simply made certain you did not fall off the seat.”
Her lips parted. She had nestled into his lap? That certainly explained why he’d been touching her. She had left him with very little choice. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to impose or accuse you of anything inappropriate.”
He shrugged. “I have been accused of worse. And it was hardly an imposition. You appeared exhausted.” He sounded sincere.
Cecilia set a disbelieving hand against her throat, feeling as if they had already shared a very intimate moment she couldn’t even remember. “Apparently, the mint kvass I drank back at the inn was strong. Very strong. I don’t remember anything.” Except for his hands.
“I take it you have very thin blood?” he asked.
“Thin— Whatever do you mean?”
He hesitated. “Kvass has very little alcohol. You do know that, yes?”
She squinted. That made no sense. If it had very little alcohol, why had it affected her so? Something wasn’t right. “What time is it, sir? Do you know?”
He dug into his inner pocket and withdrew a watch attached to a chain. Flipping open the tarnished silver lid that had several notable dents in its surface, he tilted it toward the light of the lantern shining in. He stared at the watch, his expressive, rugged face stilling.
Something was clearly wrong. “Sir? What is it? Is the hour not showing?”
He slowly veered his gaze to hers. “Ah…no. It is showing. It always shows.” He cleared his throat, playing with the weight of the watch against his hand. “The hour is midnight. On the tick.”
Midnight? She had been sleeping since three in the afternoon? How was that even possible? Three o’clock had been the time she and Mrs. Bogdanovich had stopped at one of the inns for a meal. Why couldn’t she remember anything beyond that? Cecilia blinked down at her bare hands still clutching her reticule. Had she not been wearing gloves?
He snapped the lid shut, making her look up.
She had to do something. She had to do something before she ended up on the other side of the continent. “Forgive me, sir, but I’m going to have to stop the coach. I have to go back to Strelna. It’s the last city I remember being in.”
“You cannot be serious.” He slipped his watch and chain back into his coat with a thumb. “Strelna is ten hours away.”
Cecilia centered her breath. “My son is getting married against my will, and I’m alone in Russia and don’t speak the language. Mrs. Bogdanovich is my translator and travelling companion, and the fact that she is missing concerns me. Greatly. What if something happened to her?”
His features tightened. “Let us pray nothing has.” He leaned toward her. “Might I be of assistance? What do you need?”
She wanted to grab that unshaven face and kiss him for gallantly offering help. A breath escaped her. “Can you tell the driver to turn this coach around and go back to Strelna?”
He stared. “I can. But I am only a half hour from my stop and Strelna is ten hours away.”
Oh. That would be rather rude, wouldn’t it? “Forgive me. I will ensure you find your stop first.” Cecilia softened her voice. “In the meantime, could you please open the window and speak to the driver? Surely he would know how I got to be here and what happened to my travelling companion. I do not speak any Russian, sir, and therefore will require your assistance in this. Please.”
“I am at your service.” He tossed his hat onto the seat before them. “Give me a moment.” He rose to an imposing height of over six feet and bent his head and shoulders against the low ceiling of the carriage. Glancing back at her, he unlatched the window with a quick sweep of his hand. With the dip of a broad shoulder, he leaned out the window and hollered something, his dark hair lifting and scattering against the wind that roared into the space of the coach.
The driver hollered something back over the thundering clatter of wheels.
She swallowed. What was going on?
The driver yelled a whole flurry of words as if the world were coming to an end.
Hitting the top of the outside carriage with a quick fist that thudded the roof, the man boomed something to the driver in reprimand.
The driver yelled another long flurry of words.
Leaning back in, the man latched the window, quieting the space again and shook his head. “Dolbo yeb.” He settled his large frame into the cushion beside her, causing the seat to sink. Swiping long strands of dark hair from his face, he crossed the ankle of a mud-crusted boot over his knee and scratched at his unshaven chin. “We have a little problem, dorogaya moya.”
His tone indicated the problem was anything but little. She almost grabbed him. “What? What did he say? What is it? What happened?”
“He was paid to take you.”
Dread seized her. “Paid? What do you mean?”
He dropped his hand onto his thigh. “According to him, you were delivered unconscious to his coach by two men outside a tourist inn back in Strelna. Do you not remember anything?”
Her eyes burned. “Two men?” What had she been doing with two men? “That isn’t possible. I…I wasn’t travelling with any men. I don’t even remember meeting any men.”
He swiped his face. “They told him you had a medical condition. He was paid to drop you off three towns from the next stop so your brother could take you to the doctor.”
She gasped. “My brother? I have no brother. Nor do I have a medical condition!”
He intently scanned her gown. “Are you sore in any unusual places?”
Her pulse thundered. “Are you insinuating these men might have…?”
“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “Should we take you to a doctor?”
Cecilia almost retched at the thought. But fortunately, no. Aside from the dizziness that had already waned, everything below the waist felt normal. As normal for a woman who hadn’t had sex in seven years. “No. That isn’t necessary.” She pressed a hand to her stomacher, trying to keep herself and her voice calm.
“Are you certain?”
Her face burned. “I appreciate your concern, but everything feels as it should.”
He puffed out a breath. “You are incredibly fortunate.”
Is that what he called it? “I don’t consider my situation fortunate at all. Dearest Lord, I don’t even know where I am!”
“Try to remain calm.” He held out a coaxing hand. “The driver will be attaching new horses in less than a half hour. You will get off with me. I will help you.”
Her lips parted. “Get off with you? But I don’t even know you.”
“You need help. And I will help you. You cannot trust the driver or anything he says. Most of these drivers in between main cities get paid to do things they should not. You are getting off with me. Do you understand? Your safety calls for it.”
Could she trust him? Should she trust him? “What about Mrs. Bogdanovich?”
“What about her?”
“I have to go back to Strelna and find her. What if these men did something to her?”
He glanced toward the latched window. “From what I remember of the schedule, another coach heads back toward the direction of Strelna in eight days. Unfortunately, we will not be able to get to her sooner. The warm weather has melted the snow and made travel slow. The roads are very muddy.”
Cecilia sat up. “Eight days? I cannot strand her for that long. I’m carrying all of our money. Please. Tell the driver I will pay him a hundred rubles to change out the horses at the next stop and turn this coach around.” She loosened the string on her reticule and dug into it, trying to find money to count out for the driver. “Tell him I have more than enough to—” She paused, swatting the emptiness of the silk inside. Where was her money? And more importantly, what had happened to her son’s letter? The one with the address where she was supposed to call on him once she got to Saint Petersburg?
She looked up, her fingers savagely tightening against her reticule. “Where is my money? And where is the letter that was with it? Did you take it?”
He leaned back, his rugged features tightening. “You may not want to insult your savior.”
Savior? That was a bit much. “You are the only man sitting in this coach with me,” she pointed out raggedly. “What else am I to think, sir? I cannot readily verify what you and the driver did or did not say. For all I know you and he are orchestrating this.”
“Have you considered that these two men who paid the driver might have emptied your reticule long before I boarded?”
“And why would they have left it behind? They could have made good money off the reticule alone.” She shook it. “It was stitched and beaded in Paris.”
He swiped his mouth in an attempt to hide a smirk behind a large, ungloved hand. “Oh, yes. Every man in Russia looks for reticules stitched and beaded in Paris.”
She glared. “I am stranded and have been robbed, sir. And you dare amuse yourself with my situation?”
“I can assure you, it is not your situation I am amused by.” He leaned far back and slowly held open both sides of his coat, exposing the pinstriped waistcoat that made his broad chest look even broader. “Search me. I insist.”
Feeling her body heat and ripple at the bold invitation, she shot him an exasperated look. “I am not touching you.”
“I am trying to set your mind at ease and get you to trust me. Now search me.” He held his coat open wider. “I have pockets in my trousers, too.”
She refused to look at those pockets or those trousers. “I am fine with assuming you don’t have it.”
He released his coat. “You mentioned your son. Did he want you coming into Russia? Would he have arranged for this?”
Heavens above what sort of people was he used to dealing with? John would never ambush his own mother. He was a good boy. Most of the time. “No. He would never. He and I are very close and get along very well.” As long as she and John didn’t get on the subject of his women. “He is marrying a Russian actress.” And the worst of it? All of her friends looked at her as if she had somehow put the idea into her son’s head. Only her daughters thought the whole affair to be incredibly exciting and romantic. Which was why she left them back in London with the governess. Lest any of her daughters get fanciful ideas and start marrying their own set of Russians actors well before they turned eighteen.
He let out a low whistle. “A Russian actress? I wish to offer him many blessings and congratulations.”
Cecilia held up a hand. “I ask that you please not offer either. I am actually going to stop the wedding. Whilst an actress is hardly something a mother ought to boast about, in truth, it’s the least of my worries. I genuinely wanted to support it, given my son claims to be in love with her, but she is twenty-four years older than him and he is heir to a very large estate. He has to have children.”
“Ah.” He titled his head. “I am now rather curious. Which actress is he supposed to marry? I may know the name. I attend theatre performances all the time.”
She blinked. He hardly seemed the sort to attend theatrical performances. But then who was she to judge? “Her name is Mrs. Kat…er…ino…chkin. Did I say that right?”
“Katerinochkin?” He coughed out a rough laugh and winced. “Allow me to pray for your son’s soul whilst he still has one.”
She pulled in her chin. “What do you mean? Do you know her?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. She is simply a very well known actress coming to the end of her popularity. I saw her perform last year when she came into Moscow. She is known for bleeding men dry.” Using a forefinger finger to replicate a pistol, he pointed it to his head and flicked down his thumb. “Her last lover put a bullet thr
ough his head upon discovering she had emptied his pockets down to the lint before moving on to another man. It was all over the papers.”
Papers that her son apparently did not read. Oh Lord. She didn’t need this. And most certainly not now. “I have to get to my son. I knew this woman was taking advantage of him. He is far too young to marry and has always been incredibly shy around women.”
“Shy?” He grunted. “That must be nice. How old is he?”
“One and twenty.”
He pointed at her. “Save him.”
“I plan to.”
“Good.” Dropping his foot back to the floor with a thud, he reached out and dragged her empty reticule toward himself. Turning it upside down, he shook it once, to verify that it was in fact empty. With the flick of a wrist, he tossed the reticule onto the seat across from them. “I do not wish to add to your panic, but I am beginning to think this Bogdanovich of yours, whom you were travelling with, robbed you. That would explain why she is not with you. Did you have any trunks? Because there were none attached to the coach when I boarded.”
Her lips parted. No. No, no, no. She shook her head, refusing to believe it. “That isn’t possible. Mrs. Bogdanovich is a respectable woman. One I have gotten to know quite well. She came into Russia with me from England. She also has our travelling papers and—” A gasp escaped her. How was she going to leave the country without papers?
He paused. “The kvass you drank. You mentioned it was strong. It should not have been. Who gave it to you?”
Oh, no. “Mrs. Bogdanovich.”
“After you drank it, what happened?” he pressed.
Oh, no. “I could barely stay awake. She insisted we retire instead of travelling on and assisted me into a room that was blurring. So I…” She was so stupid. “I don’t remember anything after that.” She knew that kvass didn’t taste right. It had been overly bitter. And she drank the whole thing!
He puffed out a breath. “Drugging tourists during a meal is commonplace in Russia. Once a tourist is unconscious, swindlers take everything, put them on a coach and pay a driver to deposit them hours away so no one knows about it.”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 143