Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  Ruslan studied the woman beside him with careful eyes. She’d meant to shock him. The defiance in her eyes said so and she had. If she doubted her ability, others would, too. Her reservations would have to be downplayed or, better yet, changed.

  ‘Have you said anything about your concerns to Captain Varvakis?’ Ruslan asked quietly, intrigued by this new revelation. It seemed Varvakis was not only more confident in her ability to retake the throne than she was, but he was also more committed to the idea as well.

  The French doors opened and Captain Varvakis hurried towards them. They hadn’t much left of their privacy and Ruslan had something more to say. ‘The doctor has arrived, Prince Pisarev. You must come at once. The butler isn’t sure where to put him.’

  Ruslan nodded slowly, indicating he was going to be less flustered by the doctor’s arrival than Varvakis. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Captain, we’re nearly finished here. If you would, please, go ahead and tell Thomas to put the doctor in my study.’ It was a masterful dismissal, the kind of order Captain Varvakis was used to taking without question from his superiors.

  Dasha smiled as the Captain hurried off again. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Because I have something to say to you, Dasha, just you.’ Ruslan held her gaze for the space of a few seconds, long enough to let silence fall between them, long enough for her to acknowledge these words were not to be taken lightly. When one was talking of rulers and restorations, it was deadly serious business. ‘I am your ally whether you seek the throne or not. You should feel free to use the safety of this house as you desire. If your desire is to stay hidden and recover your memory, or simply to stay hidden and a build a new life, to take a new name and set all trappings of Kuban behind you, I will support that as I am able. If you wish to stage an effort to reclaim the throne on the grounds of modernising Kuban and abolishing archaic law, I will support that, too. But I will not pressure you one way or the other. No one can decide what happens next but you.’ It was the same reassurance he’d given others who had nowhere to go and nowhere to turn, although on a far less grand scale. Never before had those people been members of the royal family. ‘You are safe with me. I am here for you.’ Nothing less than honour and objectivity required that be his position.

  ‘Whoever that is?’ she questioned sharply.

  ‘Yes, whoever that is, émigrée or refugee princess.’ He dismissed her with an encouraging smile. ‘Now, go and see the doctor.’ He’d brought her the best and he was confident she’d be well taken care of. As for himself, he needed time with his thoughts before he faced Varvakis again. It was entirely possible the revolution would succeed or fall without any intervention from Princess Dasha, especially if no one suspected she was alive. He certainly wasn’t going to stake his life on forcing the issue unnecessarily and he definitely wasn’t going to force anyone else to do so, least of all a woman who might not be interested in the plots of men.

  A single word from you, a little persuasion, could change that. You could make her see the possibilities such plots presented.

  The temptation whispered itself into being and took up residence in the lodge of his conscience.

  You could do it, too, you’ve done it before, helping men and women see things the way they needed to be seen, especially the women. You remember how to seduce...

  Yes, dammit, he did remember. It had been a point of pride to know that when the Tsar needed a diplomat to change his mind on a trade agreement or an export tax, he’d sent Ruslan to ‘speak’ to their wives; ‘pillow talk,’ he’d called it. In that way, Ruslan had served Kuban and his Tsar, although it had all amounted to nothing when his father had fallen from favour. That was the way of Kuban. If one member of a family was disloyal, the entire family was blackened with the same brush.

  You would be serving Kuban by persuading her. Varvakis is right, she’s the one they need. She can heal the country’s breach.

  His conscience was relentless.

  That was the larger temptation, because the ends did quite nobly justify the means. Persuading the ambivalent Dasha to return was in the country’s best interest. Under that aegis, he could conveniently overlook the personal gain to himself. Whatever he gained could just be a beneficial happenstance. He’d told Dasha he would not make that decision for her. But he’d said nothing about attempting to influence the decision. Would she even be aware he was influencing her?

  Such things, as crass as they might be, must be contemplated when the fate of a kingdom hung in the balance. Revolutions created all nature of opportunities for those bold enough to take them—even opportunities for him. Which was why he had to remain absolutely objective. He’d been right to tamp down the wash of sentiment that had swept him in the garden. It would be easy to be lured by Dasha’s beauty, her desperate strength in the face of her personal tragedies. He could not afford to give into those emotions. Restoring the Princess was another project, not unlike the ones he’d done in the past, nothing more. The game was in motion once again. He’d do best to remember that small nuance.

  But snuffing out hope was easier said than done. That tiny flicker of excited hope inside him refused to be extinguished entirely. If the Princess chose to take her place on throne, if he could see her successfully restored, perhaps he could find a way back, a way to erase the stain on the family name, to prove once and for all a Pisarev was loyal to the bone. It was the one thing he’d given up trying to do.

  Ruslan looked about his newly acquired town-house garden. This house was proof of that decision. Proof that he’d given up thoughts of returning. A home implied permanence. He’d been moved in for all of two weeks. Ruslan laughed to himself. Just when he thought the door was finally shut on his past, it was starting to open again. Some would say Fate was a bitch. They were wrong. Fate just might be a princess.

  Chapter Three

  Prince Pisarev called it an intimate supper. Dasha called it a council of war. She surveyed the assembled guests from her vantage point at the drawing-room fireplace with a wary eye. The day had been spent in cautious meetings such as this; first with the Prince in the garden, then with the doctor and now this gathering. It consisted of one Russian diplomat in Alexei Grigoriev, the consul from St Petersburg; one Russian officer in General Vasiliev, also of St Petersburg; and three Kubanian princes. With the exception of Klara Grigorieva Baklanova, Dasha was the only woman present, further proof this was no ordinary supper party.

  She sat at the foot of the table, a prince to her left, the darkly brooding Stepan Shevchenko. To her right sat another prince, Nikolay Baklanov, and his wife beyond him. Prince Pisarev sat at the head of the table with His Excellency Alexei Grigoriev. General Vasiliev and Captain Varvakis filled out the spaces between. Dinner was a tribute to Kubanian cuisine: a borscht soup with sour cream to begin, followed by beef and baby potatoes, all accompanied by wines from Ekaterinodar, one of the few areas in Russia where vineyards could be cultivated.

  At the other end, Prince Pisarev raised his glass. ‘A toast to our lovely guest, Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova. To safe arrivals and happier days. Na zdorovie!’ The Prince toasted her as if she were an honoured guest on a state visit, instead of a fugitive gone to ground.

  Around Dasha, the words became a polite chorus. She smiled at the guests, graciously accepting the toast as if she had a right to the fiction the Prince created, all the time wondering how many of them, like herself, questioned her ability to make good on the claim. How many of them were sizing up the potential benefits of believing in her versus risks? No one did anything for nothing and supporting a princess with no memory of her own identity was no small thing to ask. This was the worst part of not remembering, of not knowing. Who did she trust? Who could she turn to?

  When the chorus died down, she raised her own glass. ‘To our host, Prince Pisarev, whose hospitality has been unending.’ The Prince gave a slight incline of his head, his eyes steady on her as he drank.
Was he also calculating the situation? Of course he was. His questions today indicated as much and he’d be a fool if he wasn’t—something she was certain he was not. Helping her was not without danger, should she choose to return to Kuban and embrace her heritage. It would be far easier for him if she chose anonymity. Far easier for her, too.

  She wondered if, despite his vow to support her decision regardless of her choice, he would try to influence the situation towards a certain outcome? Would she ever truly be sure of his neutrality? Or truly sure that any decision she made was entirely hers alone? It occurred to her that Prince Pisarev was the man at this table she needed to be able to trust the most and the one she should probably trust the least, simply because he wielded the most power. She was in his house, under his protection, under his direction. Everything that had happened today was because of him—from her bath, to her clothes, to the excellent doctor and the dinner tonight. All of it was because of him. Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide anything tonight. But she’d have to decide soon, judging from the tenor of the conversation.

  ‘Are you saying the military is split on the rebellion?’ General Vasiliev questioned Captain Varvakis with a sharp eye. ‘If so, it is no wonder the Loyalists didn’t stand a chance, no ruler does without a unified show of military force.’

  Captain Varvakis nodded in agreement and explained. ‘The Tsar’s restrictive marriage and career policies affected noble families perhaps the most. The younger generation of nobles felt increasingly alienated by the Tsar. He cut his support out from under himself, losing the allegiance of young nobility who were officers in his army.’ Along the table heads nodded. She did not know these men, Prince Nikolay Baklanov and Prince Stepan Shevchenko, but perhaps they had fled Kuban for precisely the same reason those left behind had rebelled. Her gaze rested on Prince Pisarev. Why had he left?

  The consul, Alexei Grigoriev, looked contemplatively at his wine glass. ‘That being understood, the people in power would not be eager to welcome back a member of the Tsar’s family. The last thing they’d want would be a return to the past.’ He gave her a small, apologetic nod. ‘I speak frankly, Your Highness, that is all. I do not mean to slander you.’

  Dasha smiled her own understanding. ‘Of course, no insult taken, Your Excellency.’ He’d done her a favour with his reference to her title, a subtle assumption of her authority. If he accepted her legitimacy, perhaps the others would, too.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Your Excellency,’ Captain Varvakis broke in quickly. ‘Princess Dasha represents the middle ground. She is of the royal bloodline, a natural ascendant to the throne as far as the hierarchy is concerned. But she is also young, and she has resisted her father’s policies as assuredly as the other young nobles of the kingdom have. The Loyalists will like and accept her as a ruler based on her lineage. The Rebels will accept her politics.’

  Dasha tensed. Were those her politics? She didn’t know, quite honestly. As much as she didn’t like Varvakis or anyone else speaking for her, there was much she couldn’t speak for herself on. Who was she to say what she did or didn’t believe? It was a dangerous position for a future leader to be in. She was a blind woman, entirely reliant on Varvakis as her guide. She did not like feeling so exposed.

  Prince Pisarev’s eyes were on her again, a small smile twitching at his lips. Perhaps he guessed her quandary, but his question was for Varvakis. ‘What rebellion is this? How has the Princess resisted?’ Yes, how? It was what she was wondering, too. What had she done? She was thirsty for knowledge as much as she loathed the need for that knowledge. She should know what she’d done. Dasha fought back the frustration that welled whenever the emptiness threatened. She would not let herself feel helpless. She would face the emptiness and she would fill it.

  Captain Varvakis met the question squarely. ‘A year ago there was a marriage arranged for her with an important Turkish ally that would help secure trade routes along the Dardanelles. The Princess refused, vehemently. The Tsar feared the refusal would spark trouble beyond the palace walls coming so close as it did on the heels of General Ustinov’s young wife’s suicide, so he dropped the matter, but not before key nobles learned of it. They will remember the Princess stands with them, that she would be unlikely to continue her father’s practices.’

  ‘You remember none of this, Princess?’ Prince Shevchenko fixed her with dark eyes.

  ‘None.’ She paused, gathering their attention. Honesty would be her best way forward and theirs. ‘I might not ever remember any of it.’ That was the reality she needed to prepare herself for. The doctor today had said as much. Memory loss was supposed to be short-term, but hers showed no sign of abating. Prince Shevchenko shot a knowing glance around the table with a dark eye brow arched at the improbability of their quest. They were supposed to return a princess with no memories to Kuban and place her in power. They were gathered together tonight to discuss the risk analysis behind such an action. One by one, each of the men assembled looked away, gathering his own thoughts about the revelation and what it meant. All except Prince Pisarev. He smiled, unconcerned.

  ‘It’s far too early to decide either way and far too much is unknown. Anything could happen. The Princess may not want to go back. Her memories may yet return. The doctor suggested some memory aids. We are not without tools and resources.’ There was comfort in the Prince’s words, reminding her of his words earlier, that she was not alone no matter what she decided.

  Men shifted uneasily in their chairs, restless with her presence. It was her cue to leave. They needed to talk amongst themselves. Dasha rose. ‘Princess Baklanova, if you would care to join me in the drawing room, we can let these gentlemen get on with their port.’ And their gossip. She was well aware she’d be the main topic of conversation with only Varvakis and Prince Pisarev to defend her. The others were likely to be merciless.

  * * *

  Sleep was mercilessly elusive. Long after the guests were gone, murmuring polite goodbyes while scepticism lurked in their eyes, Dasha was wide awake. At least awake, she wouldn’t dream. That was something to be thankful for. Lamp in hand, she made her way to the library. She didn’t dare indulge in any more brandy-laced milk. Maybe a book would help take her mind off the events of the day, which had not gone as well as hoped.

  Perhaps she’d been overly optimistic. She’d hoped Prince Pisarev would recognise her. She’d hoped the doctor would give her a magical cure. Those things had not happened.

  Dasha ran her hand over the spines of books. They were new, their spines stiff. Everything in this home was new. She’d noticed that today: the carpets, their bright hues not yet dulled from generations of boots; the curtains with their rich colours. It was all tastefully understated, but it was still new. Everything lacked the truly aristocratic patina of age and successions.

  She selected a book of Russian fairy tales and took it to the sofa by the fire. The pages had been cut, but the book still gave a crackle of newness when she opened it. She ran a finger down the table of contents: Ivan and the Firebird, Father Winter, Ruslan and Ludmila... Her finger stopped on that one. Ruslan the Knight. She’d forgotten. It had been a long time since she’d read fairy tales. Pushkin had published a poem by that name as well a couple of years ago. She turned to the page, letting the story come back to her in pieces—the beautiful Ludmila stolen from home on her wedding day, the gallant Ruslan riding to her rescue and facing down a series of foes while Ludmila lay unconscious and unknowing. Dasha looked into the fire. She might enjoy the tale more tonight if the parallels weren’t so obvious, right down to the very name of her own gallant knight.

  ‘Ah, so you’ve discovered the library. Have you found anything good to read? I haven’t had time to explore the offerings yet.’

  Dasha jumped, casting about for a weapon. Her eyes lit on the poker. Could she reach it? How could she have been so careless to sit down defenceless?

  ‘I don’t think you’d reac
h the poker in time.’ Prince Pisarev stepped forward, dressed only in a shirt and waistcoat. His jacket and cravat had been discarded. Without the jacket, his lean body was on full display, elegant and urbane even in moderate dishabille. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He took the chair on her left, a glass in his hand. She felt silly and self-conscious. Who had she thought it would be? Who could it be but Prince Pisarev or Captain Varvakis?

  ‘Old habits, I suppose.’ Maybe. Who knew if she made a practice of beating people over the head with pokers, or even if she had need for such a skill? She tugged at the light blanket she’d thrown around her shoulders before coming down, reminded suddenly of how underdressed she was for meeting a man at midnight, even if that hadn’t been her intention when she’d left her room.

  ‘Nothing wrong with old habits.’ Ruslan smiled and took a swallow. ‘Can’t sleep? Would you like something?’

  ‘No.’ Dasha played with the folds of her nightrail, pleating them between her fingers.

  ‘I confess I’m glad you’re still awake. I’d like to discuss a few things, if you’re up to it.’

  She nodded her permission. Did this man never sleep? It was after midnight, approaching twenty-four hours since her ignominious arrival on his doorstep, and he was still working.

  ‘Thank you. The doctor suggested it may help prompt some memories if you surrounded yourself with reminders of your old life, if you lived and acted as if you knew yourself to be a princess. To that end, I’ve engaged a few individuals who can help with that: a dancing master, a dressmaker, a French tutor since everyone at the Kubanian court speaks French, an etiquette coach. At the very least, the skills will help you feel more at home among the English aristocracy.’