Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘A lovely woman is always worth waiting for. We have plenty of time,’ Ruslan assured her, as he always did, but his eyes were grim tonight, or should she say, even grimmer than they’d been since the announcement of her return. He was always grim these days.

  She waited until they were settled in his carriage to broach the subject. ‘You are bothered tonight. Does the thought of mediocre Italian talent not please you?’ She tried for some levity to erase the strain on his face and failed. The last few days had been stressful. The newspapers had run stories about their imminent departure and one bold article had even outlined the goals of her departure, making it clear to the public beyond the closed doors of Mayfair drawing rooms that she aspired to the Kubanian throne. Ruslan had cursed when he’d seen it.

  ‘If it were up to me, we would not go out tonight at all.’ He offered nothing more, but he was tense, his normal air of alertness heightened, although he was trying to hide it. She saw it in the little things he did. He took longer than usual to hand her down from the coach, taking care to look around first. He walked a little faster between the kerb and the front door to the town house. He kept his body closer to hers in a crowd. She didn’t mind the last. But she did mind the reason for it and she minded that he’d apparently decided not to tell her. If she was in danger, she had a right to know. Surely it would be all right, though, they’d been safe so far.

  Dasha pulled him to the side after they’d been announced under the pretence of examining her hem for a tear. She skewered him with a stare. ‘You think there will be an attempt tonight.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘assassination’. Nor could she bring herself to word the statement more strongly. Ruslan did not merely ‘think’ there would be an attempt. He knew there would be an attempt, which made not telling her even worse. Her anger started to simmer. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He took her arm, leading her into an alcove further away from the crowd. He drew the silk privacy curtain about them. Dasha braced herself. If he told her he didn’t want her to worry, she might scream out of frustration. She wasn’t helpless. Surely he knew that by now. ‘I wanted you to act as normally as possible. I wanted you to do nothing that would tip the assassin off that we knew.’ That we knew. The answer was somewhat mollifying. Even if she disagreed with how he’d handled this, it was still ‘we’.

  ‘I may not remember many things,’ she scolded in a low whisper, ‘but that does not mean I am naïve.’ Nor did it mean she wasn’t scared. The thought of an unknown assailant lurking in the crowd, dressed like the rest of them, acting like the rest of them, except for the part where he carried a weapon beneath his evening clothes, was terrifying. ‘How do you know? Who told you?’ Perhaps information would make the prospect less terrifying.

  ‘Grigoriev’s sources.’ Ruslan was succinct. She could imagine how that news had travelled; a rumour in Soho had reached Nikolay. That meant a ragtag Rebel faction made extremist by their bitterness in exile existed among the immigrant community. They wouldn’t want her on the throne based on her name alone, regardless of her politics. ‘I have men stationed around the room and the grounds, watching entrances, watching servants. I am glad it’s not during the Season. So many of the houses hire temporary servants for an evening then. That’s not necessary with these smaller gatherings.’ Ruslan forced a smile. He wasn’t telling her everything. A pit formed in her stomach. There was more and it was bad, as if an assassination attempt wasn’t bad enough.

  ‘What is it, Ruslan?’ She searched his face. They were close enough for her to see the small signs of care: the tiredness about his eyes, the beginnings of faint lines at his mouth.

  ‘A mob.’ To which he quickly added, ‘It is rumour only and “mob” may be a generous term.’ Dasha shuddered. A mob had murdered her family. She didn’t need to remember such an event in detail to fear it. She knew where it would come from: Soho. The Union of Salvation, or whatever they were called these days, would whip the disgruntled into a frenzy, and if they couldn’t get to her...

  Her gut clenched and she reached for Ruslan’s hands. ‘Nikolay and Klara? The stables? Will they be safe?’ She could not bear to think of anyone being harmed because of her.

  ‘Yes, Nikolay has sent Klara to her father’s and he has the stable well protected if it comes to that. I don’t think it will. Stepan is with him.’

  His reassurance failed. She stared at Ruslan bleakly. ‘This is all my fault. If I had chosen to simply fade away, your friends would not be in danger. You would not be leaving your home.’ He would not be preparing to stand between me and a bullet. She could not bring herself to say the last.

  ‘You chose honourably, Dasha. You saw your duty and did not shirk from it.’ Ruslan kissed her forehead. ‘You need to allow the rest of us to do the same. Now, we need to go out there and watch the mediocre soprano and act as if nothing is wrong.’ But everything was wrong. She didn’t want men sacrificing themselves for her, losing their homes for her, taking risks for her, and she certainly didn’t want this man kissing her forehead in chaste obeisance to his Queen. She wanted far more than forehead-kissing from him.

  * * *

  The soprano was just as bad as Ruslan had warned. By the interval, Dasha was ready to leave. ‘Do you think we can slip away without causing a stir?’ She would beg Ruslan if she had to. ‘It might throw the assassin off guard.’ In desperation, the man might expose himself in haste, or he might slink on home, his plan untried, which suited her just fine. If she could get herself and Ruslan home safe and uninjured, she’d call the night a success.

  Ruslan nodded in agreement. He looked about the room and gave an imperceptible gesture to a man by the door who disappeared down the stairs. ‘The coach will be at the kerb shortly. We’ll wait for it inside the hall and we won’t go down until it’s arrived.’

  A footman brought their cloaks and Ruslan settled hers about her shoulders. She felt his hands linger, another imperceptible gesture. Perhaps he, too, didn’t want to settle for chaste kisses. And perhaps he was merely warning her. If it was to happen tonight, it would happen between the door and the coach, if only because that was the last opportunity left for the assassin. If the assassin had hoped for a chance later in the evening, they’d effectively taken that plan away from him.

  The coach rolled to a stop at the kerb. Ruslan whispered reassurance, ‘The darkness will make it hard for him to have a good shot.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be encouraging?’ Dasha shot back.

  ‘Yes, my apologies.’ There was a chuckle beneath those words. Dasha smiled. Only Ruslan could make her laugh at a time like this. ‘Shall we?’ His hand was at her back, ready to escort her as if this was an ordinary night. ‘Remember, walk normally. If the assailant isn’t aware of our leaving yet, running to the carriage will certainly alert him.’

  They hadn’t made it out the door when their host stopped them, huffing up in agitation over their departure. ‘You’re leaving so soon, Your Highness? Signora has not yet sung her famous aria,’ he coaxed.

  ‘Her Highness has a headache,’ Ruslan lied smoothly. ‘She needs her rest.’ Something, someone, moved on Dasha’s periphery. She was being paranoid now, making up ghosts. Other guests were coming and going as their schedules dictated. The hall was a busy place. A perfect place.

  Their host bowed. ‘Of course, my apologies. Perhaps another time?’ Dasha wanted to leave, she felt distinctly uncomfortable, but their host would not stop talking. He was asking Ruslan for advice about the purchase of an estate outside the city.

  ‘Perhaps we could meet at White’s and discuss it further over drinks?’ Ruslan said with polite briskness as if he had time to spend an afternoon talking of estates while he was mobilising the Kubanian departure. The movement came again, closer now. She’d not imagined it the first time.

  ‘Prince Pisarev.’ Dasha hazarded an interruption, trying to look miserable with a feigned headach
e. ‘If we might go?’ A few moments ago, she’d feared the dark walk to the coach. Now, she welcomed it, a chance to get out of the light.

  The darkness will make it hard for him to have a good shot.

  The assassin knew it, too. In the hall he wouldn’t have a good shot at all—a gun would be too conspicuous, too loud. He’d switch to blades.

  Dasha’s heart began to race. Her attacker was behind her now, she could feel him. ‘Ruslan,’ she whispered in terror, all sense of preserving propriety in her address gone. Why didn’t he do something? Was he oblivious?

  In the next instant, Ruslan was on the move. With lightning reflexes, he disarmed the man behind her even as his body put himself between her and the assailant. He had her assailant in his grip, the assailant’s body locked against his. A slim blade flashed in Ruslan’s hand before she could process what was happening. The man sagged in Ruslan’s arms, hitting the floor before the guests screamed, before Dasha realised he was dead, his throat cut with a swift, lethal blade. She’d not even seen Ruslan do it. Ruslan grabbed for her hand, drawing her near, his body protecting hers as he hustled her out the door and into the night. ‘There might be more than one.’ He gave a harsh whisper at her ear. ‘We can run now. The game is afoot, there’s no sense walking.’

  She was breathless from fear and exertion when Ruslan bundled her inside the carriage and followed her in, slamming the door behind them and dragging her off the seat. ‘I want you on the floor!’ He shoved her down, his body over hers and just in time, it seemed. The first shots hit the windows, shattered glass spraying the seats. In the clatter of hooves and mayhem no one heard her scream.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Oh, God, bullets! Someone was shooting at them! At her! Dasha muffled her screams against the floorboards of the coach, Ruslan’s weight pressing down on her, his arms holding her tight, his head tucked over hers. Above them another window shattered even as she felt the coach lurch forward and the crack of the coachman’s whip. Lord willing, they’d outpace anyone on foot. London streets weren’t made for speed. Oh, no, what if their assailant grabbed on to the coach? She could imagine myriad scenarios where the door was flung open and the assailant fired inside. At close range, he wouldn’t miss.

  The coach lurched around a corner, gaining speed. Dasha strained her ears to catch the tell-tale sound of a body outside. Above her, Ruslan’s body was tensed in readiness. He, too, was anticipating the worst. The coach took another fast turn and she felt a back wheel leave the ground. Her stomach heaved. She fought back the nausea and the fear, focusing only on Ruslan. If he was with her, she was safe. It was a flawed mantra, but it was the one security she could hold on to.

  ‘We’ve made it,’ Ruslan spoke at last, levering himself off her. ‘We’re in the alley behind the town house. You have five minutes to gather anything you need.’

  A rhythmic knock sounded on the coach door followed by a low, gruff voice. ‘Ruslan, are you in there?’

  ‘Stepan, we’re both here.’ Ruslan pushed the door open and hands reached for her. Stepan and Thomas the butler were there. ‘Get her in the house.’ Ruslan issued orders behind her. ‘Why aren’t you with Nikolay? I thought I told you to stay with him.’

  ‘Nikolay’s fine. You needed me more. The mob is headed this way.’ Stepan’s words reached her ears as she ran for the kitchen door. ‘Tell your coachman I’ll drive. I’m a better driver.’

  Ruslan was arguing, but Dasha was up the stairs, fear driving her. She didn’t have five minutes, not if the mob was coming. She didn’t need it. She knew exactly what she wanted. Maximus. In her room, she grabbed a satchel and, with one arm, swept the contents of her vanity into the bag: a hair brush and the few pieces of jewellery Ruslan had given her. Maximus was already snapping at her heels for attention. She scooped the puppy up in one arm and headed downstairs.

  ‘Let them have the house, if it comes to that,’ Ruslan was saying. ‘The longer they think we’re inside, the longer we have to get away.’

  ‘I am coming with you,’ Stepan growled.

  Ruslan saw her and reached out a hand, gripping her tightly, and ushering her towards the coach. ‘My coachman is fine. The others need you here. I’ll send him back once we’re clear.’ He helped her in and she saw that he’d been busy in the time she’d dashed upstairs. Blankets and a large hamper sat on the seat along with hardy travelling cloaks and a pair of his boots.

  He climbed in behind her, Stepan shutting the door firmly. ‘Do you have the pistols? Do you have money?’ Stepan was anxious. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather brazen this out and leave with the delegation? There’s safety in numbers and all that.’

  Ruslan shook his head. ‘There’s safety in speed. We endanger the delegation and they’d endanger us. We’d be sitting ducks.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Tell Grigoriev and Varvakis I’ll see them in Kuban. I’m counting on them to get the others there.’

  In the dim light, she saw Stepan grip Ruslan’s hand, a hurried, fleeting gesture as the coachman cracked the whip. ‘Godspeed, my friend.’

  Dasha reached up a hand and grabbed the leather strap for balance. ‘What is going on? Where are we going?’ The exchange between Ruslan and Stepan had not yet sunk in. She was still running on fear as she held Maximus close. It helped to comfort the puppy. There was strength in giving comfort to another during a crisis.

  ‘We are going to Kuban,’ Ruslan said grimly. ‘As planned, but earlier than expected.’

  The import of that nearly overwhelmed her. She was glad she was hanging on to the strap and the puppy. She was fleeing London in an evening gown and diamonds, a puppy in her arms and set of pistols under the seat. The journey to Kuban would be long and arduous. It was a journey that required resources, not a puppy and a princess with no memories. She met Ruslan’s eyes. It would be the two of them against the world, quite literally, with only their wits.

  ‘What are you thinking, Dasha?’ Ruslan asked, tucking the hamper under the seat.

  ‘I’m thinking that if I could only take one person with me, I’m glad it’s you,’ she said softly. ‘But I am sorry for the cost. I will repay you some day for all you’ve done for me, for all you’ve given up...’ She didn’t know how, but she’d find a way.

  ‘Shh, Dasha.’ He pressed his finger against her lips. ‘There will be no talk of owing and repaying between us.’

  ‘But your home,’ she protested, already imagining the long glass-paned windows smashed with rocks, the immaculate interior looted, the ice-blue piano ruined, the Wedgwood shattered.

  ‘It’s just brick and mortar.’ Ruslan shook his head. ‘You are not to think about it.’ But there were other things to think about, like Stepan’s grim face when they’d pulled out. At a moment’s notice, Ruslan had given up everything and everyone he knew in London. For her. If not for her, for what?

  ‘Will you see him again?’ Dasha asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ruslan answered honestly. ‘He will not come to Kuban. I think what he wants is in London.’ He drew a breath and changed the subject. ‘We’ll drive straight through to Dover and catch a packet boat to Calais. We’ll go overland through France if we can’t trust the seas.’ Dasha let him redirect the conversation. If it eased his heartache and his conscience over what had happened tonight, he could talk about details all he liked. Immediate tasks kept fear at bay, she knew. She’d found a hundred ways to stay busy when she and Varvakis had fled Kuban just months earlier. Had it only been months? It seemed as if she’d been away much longer. She seemed different. Perhaps she was. She wasn’t the scared, confused, bedraggled ragamuffin who’d been half-carried into Ruslan’s town house in the middle of the night. But some things were the same. She still didn’t remember who she was and the nightmares still came.

  The lights of London streets faded behind them and the road became rougher as the city gave way to country. Ruslan shook out one of the blankets and p
assed it to her. ‘Sleep, Dasha. Things will look better in the morning.’ He made a nest for Maximus out of a lap robe and took the puppy from her. ‘Why am I not surprised, that given five minutes to get anything you want, you grab him?’ He settled Maximus in the nest with a smile. He turned his gaze back to her and made a welcoming gesture. ‘Come lay your head, Dasha. You’ll rest better with a shoulder for a pillow.’

  She slid on to the seat next to him, snuggling into the crook of his arm as she had once before. ‘Thank you, Ruslan.’ The words seemed inadequate.

  He chuckled, his breath warm against her hair. ‘For what, Dasha?’

  ‘For saving my life tonight. I saw what you did to the man in the hall. Thank you.’

  ‘Any time, Princess.’ He dropped a light kiss into her hair. She hated those kisses. She didn’t want him kissing her hair or her forehead any more. She didn’t want him calling her Princess, didn’t want the whole of their relationship and their choices summed up in words like prince and princess and duty for the crown.

  She looked up at him, wanting to see his face such as it was in the darkness. ‘Would you have done it anyway? Even if it wasn’t for the Princess?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled in the darkness. ‘Now, go to sleep. I’m here.’ And all would be well because he was.

  * * *

  Ruslan lay his head back against the leather squabs of his battered coach. A few pieces of glass still crunched beneath his feet despite his hasty efforts to sweep it out. He closed his eyes and listened to the rhythm of Dasha’s breathing change from wakefulness to sleep, her body soft against him. He was thankful for the feel of her, warm and alive. He’d nearly lost her tonight. His mind wasn’t ready to let go of the image of her in the hall, the assassin approaching from behind. Ruslan had seen his mistake immediately. It was too dark for a reliable shot. Leaving early or leaving when the musicale was over wouldn’t change that. The first layer of attack had always been meant to be knives in the hall.