Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  Just the thought of Dasha stabbed and bleeding made his blood heat with rage. There were better ways to solve problems and disagreements than through violence. But the world never seemed to learn, which was why he was fleeing in the night with a princess beside him. No, not just a princess. For the first time since Dasha had landed on his doorstep, Ruslan let the enormity of the situation sweep over him. Tonight, it had become so much more than a chess game about strategies and politics, Rebels and Loyalists with Moderates in between, a princess and a throne. This had become about a real woman who was in danger because of others’ political agendas, perhaps even his. Ruslan let the guilt take him. He had to bear some responsibility. Had he somehow let his own needs—the need to vindicate his family, his need to return and prove himself—shadow her decision? Had he led her down that path on purpose for his own gain?

  He drew a deep breath to quell the churning of his stomach. Dasha had nearly died tonight. Not a figurehead, not an object, but a flesh-and-blood woman whom he cared for, regardless of title and status. He’d killed for her tonight. He’d kill for her again if it came to it.

  And it probably would.

  Dasha, too, had killed, if Varvakis was to be believed. Dasha had struck down a soldier. To protect herself? To protect someone else? Dasha claimed someone had been upstairs with her the night of the attack in Kuban. Had she indeed found the power to strike down a soldier to protect someone else? Ruslan let his mind follow that train of thought. Protecting a loved one enabled a man or a woman to do the impossible. Who did Dasha love in that way? Had this woman been an aunt? A cousin? A member of the royal family? Obviously, she was someone close to Dasha. It was far better for his mind to contemplate that particular mystery than it was to think about the evening: of Dasha in danger, of his knife slicing through the assassin, the bullets that had come close to making his efforts in the hall null, of saying goodbye to Stepan and of all the people he hadn’t said goodbye to. Perhaps he would be back some day. But tonight, he doubted it. He already knew he’d stay in Kuban as long as Dasha needed him.

  * * *

  Ruslan dozed through the night, waking to assist the driver with changing the horses and to check their progress when he took Maximus out. It was nine hours to Dover in the daylight with good roads and fast horses. He ticked the villages off in his head: Dartford, Chalk, Rochester. They made Rochester before dawn. He had hopes of breakfast in Canterbury before the final push. With luck, they’d make Dover by mid-morning, in time to catch the packet.

  That did make him edgy. The sailing to Calais only left once a day. Unless there was a private yacht or sailboat he could commandeer, they would be stranded in Dover until tomorrow with very little he could do about it. If anyone was chasing them down, he’d rather not be in Dover. If they could make Calais, they could disappear among the myriad country roads that wound through France. But until then, they were rather conspicuous.

  The sun began to edge the sky, filtering through the broken windows of the coach, its rays bathing Dasha’s face in morning light. Even after a night of terror and uncertainty, she looked like an angel as she slept, her face against his shoulder, her hair coming down in sleep-tousled ringlets. She would look delightful mussed from sleep, from love, waking beside him in bed. At last, after an evening of pursuing other thoughts, he allowed himself to think about that one fantasy. Was that what he wanted? If the situation were different? If he were able to be more than her advisor? To bed Dasha? Would bedding her be enough? Or did he want something more? He wasn’t like Illarion or Nikolay for whom women were temporary fixtures to be traded in with the season—well, that was until they’d met their wives. Ruslan had always been more circumspect, his liaisons having a more permanent quality to them. His mistresses often lasted a year or two. She shifted against him, starting to stir.

  He’d want more than bedding from her, he suspected. Dasha was unlike any woman he’d ever met. She was entirely selfless, thinking of others first. It was that selflessness that had factored in so heavily to her decision to go back. A woman like that was to be admired and protected. He would not want to see her innate goodness taken advantage of. He knew, too, that Dasha would argue with him. She felt she was able to protect herself and in some ways she was. She was astute and intuitive as she’d shown time and again, but she had a soft heart.

  ‘Where are we?’ Dasha lifted her sleepy head, blinking against the sun.

  ‘We’re coming into Canterbury. We can get some breakfast and stretch.’

  Her hands went to her hair. ‘I must look a fright.’

  Ruslan laughed. If she thought she looked a fright, she didn’t know the first thing about men in the morning. ‘You look fine.’ But he rummaged in his pocket for a small comb anyway and handed it to her, knowing full well she wouldn’t believe him.

  * * *

  They refreshed themselves quickly, taking a breakfast of fresh baked buns and cheese in a basket for the coach as soon as the horses were ready, and his driver assured him he could go a few hours more. In the coach once more, Dasha insisted they devote the remainder of the trip to her training. She peppered him with questions about Kuban, about its government and her father. ‘And my brothers?’ she asked hesitantly once they’d exhausted the earlier topics. ‘Tell me stories about them. What did the four of you do as boys?’

  Ruslan smiled, remembering his summers with her brothers fondly. ‘What didn’t we do? We loved to swim.’ He laughed. ‘One day, we convinced one of the more, ah, friendly maids to flirt with our tutor so we could sneak out to go swimming instead of studying our Latin.’

  ‘You were educated with them?’ Dasha seemed genuinely interested.

  ‘For a while.’ Ruslan paused. ‘The truth is, your brothers and I were closer when we were young. My family was close to your mother’s, so I was brought to the palace often. When we were old enough to go to school, around the age of ten, we lost some of our connection. I went away and met Illarion, Nikolay and Stepan while your brothers followed their path.’ He’d gone on to attend the school appropriate for noble families where he could be trained to serve the country as his father had served. The Tsar’s sons were educated in the palace as the Tsar preferred by tutors from all over Europe. Later, they’d been sent out of the country to universities in Europe. ‘But I still mourn the loss of them.’ Ruslan put a hand over hers and squeezed.

  ‘I wish I could truly mourn them. I wish I had a memory of them.’ Dasha’s voice wavered. ‘It’s silly, but I’m jealous of you, that you have those memories.’

  ‘You will. I think going back will help you remember,’ Ruslan encouraged, as much for her as for him. She had to remember. Kuban would be dangerous, politically. There would be those who would want to see her fail and, if they knew she didn’t remember anything, they would exploit that weakness to bring her down.

  Dasha nodded, but she was not placated. ‘What if they don’t want me to be Queen?’

  Ruslan did not look away, although such a question made his heart race. Such knowledge was something he welcomed as a man, but worried over as an advisor. What if Dasha were free? ‘Then we face that decision when it comes.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘However, I do feel the odds of you being accepted are good. Varvakis and Grigoriev feel the same. We would not have let you return otherwise.’

  She gave him a coy smile that had him thinking of other things besides kings and succession as she reached for Maximus. ‘The odds? Hmmm. I didn’t take you for a gambler, Ruslan.’

  Ruslan’s eyes were steady on her, a smile hiding in them that sent a pleasant tremor through her. ‘I’m not, Dasha, that’s just how sure of you I am.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dasha envied Ruslan his certainty. She wished she could borrow his confidence, all of it: his confidence in her, his confidence that they would not be followed once they crossed the Channel, his confidence that they would make the midday packet. Confidence, it see
med, bred success. They had indeed made the packet, with ten minutes to spare and under assumed names, her silk dinner gown hidden beneath the voluminous folds of a serviceable wool cloak.

  Dasha stood on the deck of the daily steamer, watching England fade. It had been her country for a short while and London her city with its private gardens and soaring town houses. To her knowledge, she’d never been anywhere like it before. The place bustled with modernity, the largest city in the world, Ruslan had told her proudly. Larger than even Paris. ‘Will we go to Paris?’

  Ruslan joined her at the rail, having completed the business of their passage with the steamer Captain. ‘I suppose we could manage it...’ He hesitated. ‘I had not thought to go that way. Paris can be...conspicuous.’ The kind of place a princess would go. The kind of place that would have eyes and ears so that even in a city of hundreds of thousands, a princess would not go unnoticed.

  Dasha nodded. ‘I understand. No unnecessary risks.’ The wind blew at her hood, pushing it back. She reached up a hand to hold it in place.

  ‘Still,’ Ruslan persisted. ‘Paris has a certain greatness to it.’

  ‘No,’ Dasha answered firmly. ‘We are fleeing danger. We are not on a Grand Tour. There will be time another day, perhaps, to savour the delights of Paris.’ A day when there wasn’t the possibility of being hunted, or the possibility of putting Ruslan in danger again. She did not want to relive those moments in the hall of the musicale ever again. Not just for her sake, but for Ruslan’s. She never wanted to see him make a shield of himself for her, never wanted to see him take a life again for her. If Paris created such a possibility, she wouldn’t go there.

  Ruslan nodded his assent. He lowered his voice, his gaze never leaving the water. ‘I told the Captain we are a husband and wife travelling home from London after conducting some business there regarding my wines. We have vineyards in Burgundy, outside of Dijon.’ The alias was nicely done. Burgundy was in the east central part of France, the very same direction they’d head in order to reach Marseilles. They could pretend they were from Burgundy for quite some time on this journey.

  ‘And our names?’ Dasha asked, trying to ignore the little thrill of excitement that had gone through her at the mention of husband and wife. It was a silly, girlish thrill. She understood the practical reasons for designing the ruse thus. A husband gave a woman protection, his presence removed her from the speculation of other men, made her, perhaps, less noticeable. It also gave him reason to stay close.

  ‘Monsieur and Madame Archambeault.’

  ‘Do I have a first name or is it just Madame?’ Dasha laughed.

  ‘You are Camille and I am Arnaud,’ Ruslan answered and she saw how easy it was for him, all this reinvention. He’d made them merchants so that their clothes might not inspire too much curiosity. A merchant’s wife might have a silk gown if he were successful. A merchant’s wife might as easily wear solid wool. A merchant’s wife might lean back against her husband and take the sea air with his arms about her, so she did, and Ruslan’s arms slipped about her as naturally as if they’d stood like this countless times. It was a wonderful sort of intimacy.

  Dasha sighed, content for the moment. To be a merchant’s wife allowed all manner of freedom, even the freedom to cultivate the path their relationship could follow for these next weeks if she was brave enough. ‘It seems you’ve thought of everything.’

  Almost everything. Or maybe he had thought of everything and she was the one who was a step behind. It didn’t occur to her when they disembarked in Calais, or even as they made their way south-east to Arras, that nights might be interesting in their current disguise. It didn’t fully sink in until Ruslan had the room key in one hand and his other at her back, respectfully ushering her up the stairs of the nondescript inn at the heart of the city, that there was only the one room between them and, more importantly, there was only the one bed. It was a very nice bed, draped in a clean forest-green and cream counterpane, but there was still just the one.

  Ruslan’s gaze followed her eyes. ‘We’re safer together. I will sleep in the chair, Dasha, if the floor does not suffice. I dare say these accommodations are far better than the ones we had when Stepan and I and the rest of us came over.’ He helped her with her cloak and she wished for his confidence once more. How wonderful to be so comfortable with oneself, that he could talk of intimate situations with such ease. Of course, he’d done this more often than she had. How many men and women had he spirited away under false aliases? A little green monster reared its head. How many women had told him sleeping in a chair was not necessary? How many women had he obliged? Should she oblige him? That was assuming he’d ask, which of course he wouldn’t. If there was any obliging to be done, she would have to do the asking.

  It was a bold thought but these were bold times. She’d been shot at, nearly stabbed and forced to flee London and that was just yesterday. Such things had a way of rearranging one’s priorities. Happiness was fleeting, it lived in the moment. Perhaps she should, too. There was no denying she was drawn to Ruslan and no denying that his kisses, no matter what guise they’d been offered under, had left her curious for more. She faced a daunting task in Kuban. If she was successful, her life would be even less her own than it was now. She slid a surreptitious look at Ruslan, busy striding about the room, inspecting. Yes. If the opportunity presented itself, she would take it.

  ‘There’s a bit of a fair in town tonight, if you feel like strolling the booths. It’s to celebrate the wine harvest,’ Ruslan said, peering out the window to take in the view. ‘We should go. It would seem odd if a wine merchant didn’t attend and we might find something for you to wear that’s more suitable for travelling. We’ll certainly find something good for dinner.’ He ruffled Maximus’s fur as the pup gnawed on a bone the innkeeper had found. ‘This fellow should be fine here for a few hours.’

  The sight of him with the puppy made it hard to keep her heart in check. What was it the old wives said about a man and his dog? How a man treated his dog said volumes about how he treated people? It was an interesting litmus test of a man’s character. Ruslan passed effortlessly although by London standards he was less than perfect tonight, rumpled from travel, tired from lack of sleep, his hair unruly from endless hours in a carriage compounded by Channel winds and more road travel. To Dasha, he’d never looked more handsome, more carefree, more boyish. And yet, she did not forget that the man who stood before her was strong as steel and just as deadly. He could go from playful to lethal in an instant should she be threatened.

  If she couldn’t have Paris, she’d have Arras, Dasha told herself as they wandered the stalls. Ruslan was an apt guide, leading her through the market set up in the Grand Place, the centre square. Arras was known for its tapestries and textiles and it wasn’t hard to find a decent collection of second-hand clothes: a pair of trousers, a shirt, waistcoat and jacket for him, and a wool skirt and bodice for her in a dark blue. Clothes found, they could turn their attention to entertainment, wandering the booths, looking at trinkets and tasting the wines. Ruslan made an admirable wine merchant, talking with each vendor about the wines’ complexities until Dasha wasn’t sure he wasn’t a wine merchant after all.

  The wines were rich, the meat—turning over an open-fire spit at one end of the Grand Place—even richer, so tender it nearly fell off the bone. Dasha licked her fingers and laughed as juice dribbled down Ruslan’s chin while his tongue frantically tried to catch it. Ruslan gave up and wiped at his mouth. ‘It’s too good to waste.’ Ruslan shrugged unapologetically.

  After food, they returned to shopping, stopping at a booth selling milled soaps scented with lavender. ‘Pick out a few bars,’ Ruslan encouraged, handing the vendor coins in advance. ‘They’ll make travel less tedious.’ It was the first purchase of many he’d make for her as they wandered. There were hair ribbons; the soft wool shawl of deep burgundy; the woollen stockings; the embroidered fichu, a small triangular
shawl; and the fichu of Flanders lace, an elegantly done piece. ‘For special occasions,’ he whispered and she thought he might be teasing. There would be no special occasions on the road, not for them. They wanted to reach Kuban as fast as possible. Still, with a harvest moon overhead and lanterns lighting the fair, it was hard to remember exactly what was the fantasy and what was the reality; that Ruslan was not her husband, that he was making these purchases because she’d left London with nothing but her dog.

  They passed a booth selling linens from Ireland and her eye fell on an exquisite nightgown. She looked away. Such a purchase was foolish, a luxury. They walked on a few booths more, stopping at one that sold knives. Ruslan pressed a leather bag of coins into her hand. ‘I’ll be a while here, why don’t you go do some shopping on your own, just don’t wander too far.’ It was what any husband might say to his wife. They were playing this game far too well. Or perhaps it was just an excuse. Perhaps he’d seen her looking at the nightgown and knew he couldn’t possibly purchase it for her. Not because the ruse wouldn’t tolerate it, it certainly would. A husband could buy his wife any nature of gift he chose. But because their relationship couldn’t tolerate it. If he purchased such a present for her, it only implied one thing: that sex with her could be bought, that what transpired between them could indeed be limited to a price. He was too much a man of honour to risk such an implication.

  And herself? Where was her honour in all of this? Because she wanted him. If she couldn’t have his confidence, she could at least have him only if for a short while. Dasha knew her answer as she handed over the coins for the beautiful nightdress. If he asked, she’d be his. And if he didn’t ask? Would she be bold enough to brave the chasm of propriety he’d erected between them? Had she ever had a lover? She doubted it. The Kuban she’d been raised in would not have allowed it. According to Varvakis she’d been meant for a dynastic marriage. She might still be. As Queen, she would need to consider who or what was best for the country when she took a consort. Dasha clutched the paper-wrapped package to her chest. This might be the only time she could choose for herself alone.