This couldn’t be happening. “But the woman came highly recommended to me.”
“By who?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Consider them your friend no more. How much money did you travel with? Did this woman know about it?”
She wanted to cry. “Yes. She knew I had brought three thousand.”
“Three thousand?” he echoed, straightening. “You should never travel with that sort of money. Never.” He muttered something in Russian and then said, “She was probably working with others. Possibly her family. Which would explain the two men who delivered you to the coach. She could not have done it all on her own.”
She paused. “You certainly know quite a lot about these things.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I have seen a lot. More than a man should.”
She refrained from hitting her head against the window of the carriage beside her. “What am I going to do? I have no money, no clothes and no idea where I’m even at!”
“Where are you going? What is your final destination?”
She was officially dependant on a complete stranger. “Saint Petersburg.” She turned toward him, her dark skirts bundling against the seat between them. “How many days away am I? Do you know? Am I on the right coach?”
He intently searched her face.
Cecilia stared back. “Please don’t tell me I’m on a coach to Siberia.”
He rumbled out a laugh. “No.” He rubbed his chin. “If you get off at the next stop, you will only be seven hours away from Saint Petersburg. Coincidentally, I am heading there myself to catch a boat on the Baltic.” He dropped his hand onto his knee. “Allow me to pay for your connecting coach into Saint Petersburg.”
Astounded by his generosity, she leaned in. “I wouldn’t be imposing?”
His gaze held hers. “No. Not at all.”
Why was he staring? “Thank you.”
His voice grew husky. “Of course.”
She tried not to let the raw huskiness of that voice trace her spine. Though she wanted to be at ease knowing she was fortunate enough to have transportation to Saint Petersburg, she now had a much bigger problem. How was she going to find her son without an address or a street name?
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“How well do you know Saint Petersburg?”
His gaze remained riveted to her face. “I was born and raised there prior to moving to Moscow a few years ago. Why?”
A breath escaped her. He knew English and Russian and knew the city of Saint Petersburg. He was a Godsend. “Forgive me for even asking, but would you consider assisting me locate my son once we get into Saint Petersburg? I know nothing about the city or the language and have no idea how I am to find him.”
He sat straighter. “Where in Saint Petersburg are you going? What street is he on?”
She bit her lip hard. Her son’s letter, which had been in her reticule, bore the address, which sadly, she couldn’t remember. She had only glanced at it only once or twice. The street name was…Ga…something. Or was it Gor…something? Either way, it was hardly helpful. “My son bought a home. I don’t remember the street name or the address, as it was quite recent, but he wrote in his last letter that it overlooked the Neva River on the east side. Do you know where the river is? Maybe we can find him that way.”
He lowered his chin. “Do you know how big the Neva is? ’Tis over fifty miles long. We would be better off standing in the street yelling out his name.”
Her mouth went dry. She was lost. In Russia.
He eyed her. “Are you married?”
She pulled in her chin. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He adjusted his dagger at his waist. “Because I wish to know what I can and cannot do with you.”
Cecilia leaned away from him and that dagger. “Begging your pardon, but you are not doing anything with me.”
“You misunderstand. You have a son and appear to be respectable, therefore you must have a husband. Is your husband in Saint Petersburg with your son? Because I have no wish for misunderstandings. I have had my share of it and husbands can be needlessly aggressive.”
She blinked. Oh. “No. You needn’t worry about— My husband passed away. Seven years ago.” It was so odd to say it aloud. She rarely thought about Frederick anymore and felt incredibly guilty knowing it.
He dropped his hand to his side. “So you have no man?”
The way he said it made her think he was about to volunteer to be that man. “No.”
He hesitated and searched her face. “How old are you?”
She blinked. Was he flirting with her? Now? Knowing she was in a state of panic and lost in the bowels of Russia? “Surely, you jest. I am old enough to be your mother.”
His features stilled. “My mother is no longer alive. So do not speak of her.”
Her heart squeezed. “Oh. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to…”
Turning to the small, mud spattered window beside him, he propped his head against the glass. “She was very ill. She suffered.”
Now she felt like a complete dolt. She softened her voice. “In answer to your question, sir, I am forty.”
“Are you?” He veered his gaze back to her. “I am a full thirty.” He said it as if to impress her. Lifting his head from off the window, he leaned toward her and draped an arm against his own knee. His eyes boldly raked over her. “You are incredibly beautiful.”
She almost sank deeper into the seat. Were all Russians like this? His casualnes was unnerving. She was a titled widow with four children.
“The name is Konstantin Alexie Levin.” He inclined his head, holding her gaze.
Why did she feel like fanning herself? “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levin.”
He still held her gaze. “Is it?”
Now she really felt like fanning herself. “I can assure you it is.”
“I am honored knowing it. Might I ask for a name? Since we are officially travelling together?”
“I am Lady Stone.”
“Lady?” He raised himself off his knee. “You mean to say you are of British aristocracy?”
“Yes.”
He draped a long, muscled arm across the back of the upholstered seat, straining his coat against the movement. “Did you think travelling with another woman was a good idea?” It was obvious by his gruff tone he wasn’t looking for an answer, but was actually issuing a reprimand. “A lady of your standing ought to be travelling with a man. And guards. Because another woman can do nothing to protect you. Nothing.”
She blinked rapidly and edged away, feeling her skin prick beneath that penetrating gaze. He clearly did not understand the underpinnings of British society. Or that she would rather be robbed all over again than to have had her own cousin, Lord Gunther, travel alongside her. “Hiring a female companion is what respectable women of my circle do when they travel, Mr. Levin. I have no male relatives I would willingly travel with and a male companion outside of one’s family insinuates indecency. Which is why I hired Mrs. Bogdanovich.”
He slowly shook his head from side to side. “Here in Russia, where land is vast and the people are desperate, such respectable thinking ends badly. Most robberies in Russia result in death. Why? Because the majority of swindlers have no understanding as to how much laudanum goes into a cup. Given how deeply and how long you slept, I have no doubt if you had been given a touch more laudanum, you would have been dead. You should have been dead if Strelna was where you were drugged. Because that means you have slept for over ten hours.”
She swallowed knowing he was right. She would have been dead without having ever gotten around to seeing her daughters or her son properly marry. She would have been dead before she could hold her grandchildren or travel to Paris and breathe in the sort of wild adventure she had always yearned for. She had once read in the gossip papers that Parisian women waltzed naked with their lovers in the privacy of their flats and smoked cheroots in public. Secretly, she had a
lways wanted to try both.
Mr. Levin leaned back against the seat. “Fortunately for you, Lady Stone, your son is associating with a well-known actress, which will make it easy to find him. All we have to do is inquire at the theatre she performs in when we get into Saint Petersburg. Depending on how well that goes, you should be with your son in two days. Three at most.”
She almost slumped back against the seat. She had never been more thankful. “Your kindness has no bounds.”
“Let us not exaggerate. It has its bounds.”
She bit back a smile. She liked him. He didn’t pretend to be anything more than what he was. She envied people who didn’t have to lead their lives according to a title. Unlike her, they could waltz naked with a cigar. “I cannot thank you enough. Is there anything I can offer you in return for the assistance you are providing?”
He extended his long, trouser-clad leg and let his worn, leather boot hit the upholstered seat across from them. Flakes of dried mud spattered the seat. “A beautiful woman should never ask a man what he really wants.” His green eyes studied her and his mouth quirked. “He may tell you.”
Her pulse fluttered knowing he was flirting with her. She tightened her hold on her shawl. “You certainly are anything but coy, Mr. Levin,” she countered.
He dropped his leg from the seat and took back his arm from the seat. His eyes brightened as he shifted toward her. “Being coy never got me anywhere.”
She locked her knees together. “My son will pay you when we find him,” she offered, trying to change the course of their conversation. “I will ensure it is generous.”
“I would never take anything for assisting a woman.” He leaned in across the seat, that charred, smoky scent of wood drifting in from the heat of his body. “Even if there was something I wanted.”
Unspoken words of ‘Which there is’ hung between them.
She felt her entire body ripple in awareness. She leaned back, her shoulder bumping into the wall of the carriage behind her.
He smirked. “You are not as bold as you paint yourself, Lady Stone, are you?” Drawing in closer, he brushed a hand over her shoulder, lowering his gaze to his fingers that traced an area of her cashmere shawl. “Sadly, there appears to be some damage to your shawl. A part of it is unraveling.”
She swallowed, feeling faint from the tips of her ungloved fingers down to the tips of her toes buried in her stockings and half boots. Her shawl wasn’t the only thing unraveling. For some reason, she now envisioned him shredding apart her clothing at the stitch with bare hands and whispering words in Russian to her until she herself spoke Russian. Her heart lurched, her breath coming in uneven takes. It was amazing how being away from her three girls had suddenly turned her into a woman. Not a mother. A woman. She had honestly forgotten what that was.
Almost dying apparently did something to a woman’s mind.
He took back his hand. “Forgive me. I should not have touched you.” Rising from the seat, he turned and fell back into the seat across from hers. His sharp features dimmed. He dragged out his watch and flipping it to the backside of the silver casing he slid a finger across what appeared to be etched words. He tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket and shifted his unshaven jaw, watching her.
Despite the coolness of the air in the carriage, her palms grew moist. The man made her want to do things she thought she’d long outgrown. Because, holy heaven, he was everything her husband had never been. Young, good-looking, dashing and outspoken.
She’d been married almost fourteen years to the day when her husband, Frederick, had died back in 1823, which was now seven years ago. Lord Stone had gone to sleep one night in his room and had never woken up. Despite the fact that she had grudgingly learned to love him in her own way, she lived every day of those fourteen years knowing she had married him for his money and that he had married her for her youth and her beauty.
It didn’t make for a good marriage.
Sex was scheduled. It occurred every Monday and Friday evening. If the man wasn’t busy or tired. Sometimes, she climaxed, but only when and if he put effort into it. All too many times, she learned to lay on her back, thinking about nothing in particular until he was done. He would then roll off, pat her cheek in thanks, shrug on his robe and plod back to his room. He never embraced her after the act. Nor did he ever stay in her bed to sleep. He thought it was in poor taste for a man to display any form of affection, even behind closed doors. She quickly mastered the art of using her fingers and would wantonly imagine she was being ravaged by one of her good-looking male neighbors.
Though Frederick travelled extensively prior to their marriage, he never held any interest in letting her or the children see much of the world. Going up into Scotland was considered worldwide travelling for their family. His sole interest had been collecting antiquities, attending parliament sessions during debates and taking long walks. Alone. Always alone. He spent time with her and the children only when it suited him. Which wasn’t often.
He did, however, let her buy whatever she wanted. In fact, he encouraged it because it was his way of making up for being so morbidly removed. She therefore spent a lot of time shopping with her children and together they always delivered bountiful weekly boxes of items to countless charities throughout London. It made for a rather uneventful life spent solely in shops and…well, shops.
Such was the bane of marrying a man for money. One had everything yet nothing.
Adjusting his coat, Mr. Levin smoothed out the fabric of his trousers against his knee and flicked his gaze to the window. “We are slowing. Are you getting off with me?”
“I most certainly won’t be travelling on to find out who my ‘brother with the doctor’ is,” she chided.
He smirked. “’Tis good to know you have a sense of humor about this.”
She sighed. “Panicking certainly never served me well.”
“It never serves anyone well. Chin up. We will find your son.”
The driver called out something in Russian and the carriage slowed, tugged and pulled until it clattered to a complete halt.
Silence now pulsed around them.
Mr. Levin swiped up his wool cap from the frayed upholstered seat, tugged it onto his head and grabbed up her reticule, shoving into his coat pocket. Opening the door with his shoulder and weight until it swung out, he jumped down from the coach with a resounding thud of leather boots crunching into gravel, turned and snapped out a large hand. “Our connecting coach into Saint Petersburg does not arrive for another two days. There is a small inn down the road. You and I can share a room until the coach comes in. I will pay for it.”
She tightened her hold on her shawl at the thought of sharing a room for two nights with a good-looking Russian she just met. In all her forty years, she had never strayed. As a mother to four children, she had gone above and beyond ensuring no man, especially her cousin, stepped anywhere near their lives after the death of her husband. Her children came first. And even though she had considered taking a lover, for she did get lonely, she had this irrational fear her children would somehow pick the lock at night and walk in on her doing things with men she shouldn’t.
Her fingers dug into the softness of her cashmere shawl. If she didn’t ask for a separate room she knew she would end up doing things with him. Because those green eyes made her want to shove him against a wall and show him how dangerous a deprived woman could be. “Might I ask for a separate room, Mr. Levin?”
He shifted from boot to boot, still holding out his hand. “I would offer, but my funds are limited until I get to London.”
She gaped. So much for escaping him. “London? Why are you going to London?”
He paused. “I plan to live there for a small while until I decide what to do next. Why do you ask?”
What if people found out about their association and that she had shared a room with him in Russia? Regardless of what did or did not happen, she’d be lynched by all of society. And her daughters, who were a tender thi
rteen, fifteen and sixteen, would never see the respectable debuts they deserved. She couldn’t breathe. “Mr. Levin. I live in London.”
“Do you?” He sounded as pleased as he was surprised. He shifted closer, his travelling coat opening wider. “How do you like it there?”
He clearly didn’t understand. “I am asking for a separate room. Please.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “As much as I would like to oblige, Lady Stone, I cannot afford two separate rooms for two nights. I barely have enough to get me into England and I still have to purchase food for you and myself over these next two days and buy us fares into Saint Petersburg.” He leaned forward and draped an arm against the open door of the coach. “I can give you the room whilst I sleep in the corridor at night. Would that be acceptable?”
She wasn’t about to let him pay for the room and then have him sleep in the corridor. Oh, dear. “There is no need for you to sleep in the corridor on my account. You and I will manage.” Somehow. “All I ask is that you not speak of this to anyone whilst in London.”
“I will tell no one. I consider myself to be a gentleman.” Pushing away from the door, he held out his hand again. “Allow me to assist you from the coach.”
He certainly did appear to be a gentleman. It was astonishing. A woman would never know it given his lack of cravat, the size of that dagger and his unshaven face. “Thank you, Mr. Levin.” She rose, gathering her skirts from around her booted feet and lowered her head through the opening of the coach.
He grabbed her hand, his rough heat penetrating the coolness of her skin. He paused, his fingers skimming her inner palm. “Your hand is cold.”
“Is it?” She hadn’t noticed. Not with him around.
The pads of his fingers pressed into her skin. He brought his other hand up and covered it, rubbing her entire hand between both of his large ones in an effort to give it warmth. “I am assuming your gloves were stolen along with everything else. I have gloves in my satchel. Do you want them?”
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 144