Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘My apologies for frightening you.’ He inclined his head and smiled. ‘Are you comfortable? My town house is not large, but I like to think it is well appointed.’ He gave a smile meant to convey humility and modesty, but it was self-deprecating at best. Dasha didn’t think there was anything humble or modest about the Count.

  ‘You did not frighten me,’ she clarified with a cool smile. She wanted him to be clear on that point. It would be a cold day in hell before the likes of him would scare her. ‘You merely startled me. I must have fallen asleep.’ She made to rise. After his rather unsavoury comments about her virtue today, his dislike of her was unquestionable. She had no desire to be alone with him. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must find my bed. We have a long journey tomorrow.’ Serebrov had arranged for them to go upriver on a barge to the capital. He’d meant it to be her triumphal entry.

  The Count moved towards her, making it impossible for her to gain the door. ‘Perhaps a drink first? Have a seat, Your Highness. You and I have things to discuss, starting with your choice of advisors. How well do you know Prince Pisarev? Because I know him very well and his family, too.’

  ‘I do not wish to be a party to gossip.’ Dasha did not retake her seat. She would leave the room even if she had to force her way past him.

  The Count settled himself in the chair opposite the one she’d vacated, unbothered by her effort to exit or else confident he could stop her with words alone. He let her make it as far as the door. ‘It’s always a shame to see an ambitious family overreach themselves and fall from grace. Of course, it’s no wonder, given Pisarev’s circumstances, that the Prince is so eager to see you on the throne, with his assistance of course.’

  She made the mistake of looking at him. Ryabkin laced his hands over the flat of his stomach, a smug smile on his face. ‘You can walk away from me, but you can’t walk away from the truth. Why don’t you ask him how his father died?’

  Dasha slammed the door behind her. She would not give Ryabkin the satisfaction of seeing her upset. But inside she was roiling. She wanted to run to Ruslan, to beg the truth from him, to be told Ryabkin lied. She could do neither. It was what Ryabkin wanted. It would give the Count proof Ruslan was not a neutral party.

  She gained her room and locked the door behind her, breathing hard as her mind worked, determined to dispel Ryabkin’s ignoble insinuations. Ruslan was not using her for advancement. If he was, he wouldn’t have broken off their affair, he would have needed that leverage. Or would he have broken it off anyway because the road to success required it? She groped for his ring beneath her clothing. No. It wasn’t true. Because if it was, it called into question the motives behind all his actions, most notably, had he seduced her to get what he wanted?

  Dasha sank on to the bed, feeling more alone than she ever had. An intuitive memory came to her.

  This was life at court, all the guessing and second-guessing, and the game was just beginning.

  Chapter Twenty

  She was home! Her blood sang with the knowledge of it the moment the barge turned the final bend in the river and the city came into view with its gold domes, and whitewashed limestone buildings. She knew this place. Dasha closed her eyes and willed the memories to come. Snatches of remembrances made their way to the surface: boating parties, summers spent on the river, Vasili teaching her to fish. She opened her eyes to find Ruslan watching her, a private smile flickering across his lips. He was well turned out today, in a long, warm, wool coat with a thick fur collar. The wind had already had its way with his hair.

  She smiled before she could think better of it, before she could remember Ryabkin’s accusations. Ruslan looked away quickly, careful not to drawn anyone’s attention, but not before she’d seen the emotion in his eyes. He understood. He was feeling it, too—the country welcoming him home. She ached at not being able to go to him, to stand at the rail with her hand in his and celebrate this homecoming. But it was Serebrov who was beside her, sharing the moment. ‘It’s a beautiful day to come home, Your Highness.’ Serebrov beamed as if he’d ordered the weather on purpose for her.

  Dasha made the appropriate responses because she should, she owed him that in exchange for his arrangements. But her heart wasn’t in it. This was yet another level of loneliness: to be alone in a crowd. To be isolated because of who she was. If she was lonely, if she was aching, if she could not go to Ruslan when she wanted and confront him about Ryabkin’s suppositions, well, that was her fault. She’d chosen this course, a course that meant all she could have with Ruslan were stolen moments, brief as they might be, a private smile, a look across the room. Perhaps with time, they might contrive something more. Until then, this was her choice.

  * * *

  She’d chosen honour and duty, and even the satisfying of her own curiosity over remaining in London, over fading to anonymity and recreating herself. She had chosen. It was a mantra she repeated to herself daily as she settled into the business of negotiating for the throne, the business of remembering. Her days were long, filled with meetings, and thankfully, with memories. Ruslan’s doctor in London had been right. Surrounding herself with familiar things would help the memories. Every day, she remembered more: more people, more places.

  She was aware Ruslan worked tirelessly on her behalf. If her days were long, his were longer. He met with people, travelled the countryside and brought back news. She knew within a moment of his arrival that he was in a room. Her body craved even the slightest touch or acknowledgement from him. The road to Marseilles seemed like another lifetime but late at night, her body didn’t forget what it was like to burn even as it realised it might never burn again.

  * * *

  There was no opportunity to see Ruslan alone until she’d been in Kuban for two weeks and even then the opportunity was quite unplanned. She’d gone to the river to walk beneath the trees with their scarlet leaves and clear her head from a meeting gone on too long. She’d asked for privacy, but a few short minutes later, hooves pounded on the trail behind her. Dasha turned, ready with an imperious scold. Sweet heavens, could they not manage without her for five minutes? The scold died on her lips when she saw the rider. It was Ruslan, his hair a characteristic mess, as he pulled the horse to a walk and dismounted.

  ‘Dasha! What a surprise.’ He grinned, letting the smile take his face.

  She laughed. ‘Why don’t I quite believe it? Who told you I was here?’ She would forgive their lapse in following orders if it garnered her a few precious moments alone with Ruslan.

  ‘I winkled it out of an unsuspecting page boy.’ Ruslan’s grin was infectious. She felt the cares of the day evaporate as he strode towards her, reins looped about his arm.

  ‘Winkle? Is that an entirely English word?’ Euphoria bubbled up inside her.

  ‘It is.’ Ruslan’s gaze searched her face, his grin turning into a more sombre expression. ‘But I didn’t come out here to talk about winkling.’ It was a subtle reminder they hadn’t much time. ‘How are you, Dasha? There hasn’t been a moment to see you, to touch you.’ The naked hunger of his blue eyes stole her breath, confirmation she had not been the only one to burn. It was almost her undoing. She would have flung herself into his arms if she hadn’t been so acutely aware that anyone might come down the trail at any moment.

  ‘I am fine, as good as can be expected. And yourself?’ Dasha studied his face, taking in the tiredness that lurked behind the smile and the tell-tale shadows beneath his eyes.

  He shrugged, dismissing her concern. ‘You are remembering, more and more every day. I can see it in your face.’ She heard the quiet joy in his voice, saw it in his eyes, the way they lit like blue flames. He was happy for her. She had not forgotten how to read him. Even apart, they remained in tune to one another’s moods.

  ‘I am remembering. Your London doctor was right. All the familiarity has brought so much back.’ She could hear the excitement and relief rising in her own voice
as she told him. ‘I remember rooms, decorations, little things I had like a hair brush, or a favourite dress, where I went to celebrate holidays.’ It felt good to share that news—she had not realised how hungry she was to unburden herself, to share her news, her secret.

  These long two weeks, there’d been no one she could tell, no one who could be privy to that part of her struggle. And yet, she would disappoint Ruslan. She had to tell him the good and the bad. ‘I still don’t know who I am, Ruslan.’ She shook her head and gave voice to her frustration. ‘Every day I wake with the hope that this will be the day I remember I am the Princess. But every night I go to bed without the answer.’ Of all the things she remembered, she couldn’t remember the most important item of all.

  Ruslan reached for her hand, squeezing in sympathy. ‘It will come, give it time.’ And us? she wanted to ask. Will that come, too? She was not sure there was an answer. If there was, she was not sure she wanted to hear it. What if this was all they could have, stolen moments beneath the autumn leaves, always on alert for an intruder? For now, it would have to be enough to hold his hand, to walk beside the river, to feel his body move alongside hers, his long strides shortening to match her own.

  ‘Do you like being home?’ Dasha redirected the conversation away from herself. She watched his face come alive as she knew it would. She’d caught him in a few unguarded moments since their arrival, a certain contentment on his face as he took in the scenes around him.

  ‘Kuban is very beautiful, very wild. I don’t think there’s any place quite like it in the world.’ Ruslan smiled at her and she could see the genuine pleasure he took in his country. ‘I’ve been remembering, too, Dasha. I had forgotten just how lovely it was.’ A trill of pleasure rippled through her at the veiled compliment. Just for a moment, they weren’t talking of nature any more. His gaze lingered for an instant and then the moment was gone. ‘When I walk along the river, when I look up at the trees, or into the hills, or hear a wolf howl at night, I remember why I love this place, but I am also remembering why I left it. There is great joy for me here, Dasha. But there is also great sorrow.’

  They’d reached a bend in the river where a slender birch grew beside the water. They stopped beside it in silence, taking in the raw beauty of the landscape. ‘Does it have something to do with Ryabkin?’ Dasha ventured quietly.

  Ruslan gave a wry smirk. ‘Has Ryabkin been talking?’

  ‘Yes.’ She would not lie. ‘He maligns you at every council meeting.’ She paused, hesitant to continue.

  ‘And what else?’ Ruslan’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘In private, he has insinuated you seek power for yourself through me.’

  ‘In private? When have you been alone with him?’ Anger flashed in Ruslan’s eyes. She’d not anticipated such a reaction. She’d simply meant to assure Ruslan that the accusation had not been made publicly. Public would mean a duel. Ruslan would not be able to let such remarks pass uncontested.

  ‘Just once, in Ekaterinodar. It was not by choice.’ Good heavens, Ruslan was jealous. ‘Your animosity is unlikely. The two of you should be on the same side, both of you want reform. The only difference is that you want it through my restoration and he does not.’

  ‘It is because of my father,’ Ruslan said slowly and she could see what the confession cost him, the hurt the memory brought him. She reached out her other hand and covered his. This time, she would be the one to offer comfort.

  ‘Will you tell me?’ she asked softly.

  Ruslan leaned a shoulder against the birch trunk, his thumb running idly over the knuckles of her hand. ‘My father spoke out against the Tsar, politely of course. My family was a great favourite of your father’s. My father felt because of that favour he was well placed to bring an unpopular opinion to the Tsar’s attention. He also believed that those who encouraged him to be the messenger of that news would stand with him once the message was delivered. He went to the Tsar, telling him how unhappy noble families were with certain laws regarding marriage and service to the country. But the news displeased the Tsar. A few families were dispossessed of their lands in retaliation and Ryabkin began to fear he would be next. So, he went to the Tsar and turned the Tsar’s ear with tales of treason, suggesting my father conspired against him. My father was imprisoned, and he chose to die there instead of facing trial so that no definitive claim of dishonour could be attached to the family name.’ He paused and cleared his throat against the emotion summoned by those words, the wound still fresh after all this time. ‘It was a vain gesture. My mother died shortly afterwards from grief.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said softly. He was giving her the sanitised version. She noted the omission of words like betrayal and suicide. He was omitting the hurt, too, how much it had pained him to experience the loss. She risked a more intimate touch, the sweep of her hand against his cheek. She understood better now how much this homecoming meant to him, how much he was counting on her. She understood what drove him. How strange. All this time, she’d felt she was the one relying on him, when, in truth, he had been relying on her. They were not dissimilar in that regard, both of them bound by duty and honour to see this task through.

  ‘I will not fail you, Ruslan.’ She could not bring back his family any more than she could bring back her own memories, but she would restore his pride.

  Ruslan gripped her hand before she could take it away. ‘Do not be alone with him again, Dasha. The Count is dangerous. He will not hesitate to kill if there is no other way to clear his path. If we are successful in winning the throne, there may shortly be no other option left to him.’

  She nodded, understanding the gravity of that circumstance. ‘But I will have you beside me.’

  ‘Yes. I will be beside you, as I have been from the start,’ Ruslan vowed, letting her hand go. He stepped away, loosening the reins and preparing to mount, preparing to leave her; his words were a poignant reminder that the two of them existed in a half-world where their very closeness to one another fed the chasm that kept them apart. Dasha watched him ride away with an ache in her heart. If they had not loved one another so well, that chasm would not exist. This was what came of loving someone more than oneself and it was a most exquisite pain indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Work could not overcome the pain, but it could dull it, Dasha discovered. She threw herself into efforts to reconcile the opposing Loyalists and Rebels and to assert her claim to ruling the country. The ‘Return’, as she had privately branded it, was going as expected, in good ways and in bad. But Dasha liked to think anticipated resistance was a better form of resistance than encountering the unexpected. The Rebels, whipped to a paranoid frenzy by Ryabkin, still worried they couldn’t afford a Tukhachevsken on the throne and, as long as the Count led them, her acceptance would remain in question. In fact, it was that very issue that brought the council to a stalemate: the Rebels, on the Count’s advice, were unwilling to accept her claim to the throne on the grounds that she was an imposter.

  ‘I say we exhume the bodies.’ Ryabkin unleashed his latest salvo in the council room of the capital late one afternoon. The announcement brought discussion to an abrupt halt.

  Dasha felt herself pale at the vulgar audacity of his request. The man was an ass. Did he say things simply to get a rise out of people? It unfortunately worked. A murmur went up around the table. ‘Why not?’ Ryabkin spoke over the rumble. ‘It’s only been five months since they were buried. We can still identify the bodies and count them. We can end speculation from the Loyalists that Rebels did not really kill the royal family.’ He shot a malevolent glare at Dasha. ‘We can do away with this pretence and get back to the business of governing.’

  He enjoyed painting her as a traitor. She couldn’t help but shoot a rare glance in Ruslan’s direction where he sat at the middle of the table. He was well dressed in a suit of brown wool that brought out the russet hues of his hair, but these w
eeks had taken a toll on him. Exhaustion edged his eyes and lined his mouth.

  ‘Do you call this governing?’ Ruslan interrupted, deflecting the man’s attention from her and directly challenging the Count himself. ‘In the weeks I’ve been here, I’ve seen nothing but factious squabbling over petty spoils instead of any real attempt at governance.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Rebels, Loyalists, you’re nothing. You’ve been given a taste of power and you’re drunk on it, looking for ways to better your own personal positions. The Princess has a real plan. You should start listening to her.’

  ‘The Princess!’ Ryabkin scoffed. ‘Care to join her on the block, Pisarev? I’ll keep the axe sharp enough for two.’ He twisted his mouth into a sneer. ‘Although I doubt you’ll need it. You’ll probably do yourself in beforehand, a coward like your father.’

  Ruslan half-rose in a posture of aggression. ‘How dare you!’

  Ryabkin gave a cold laugh. ‘How dare I? How dare you? You, who accuses me of being power hungry when you’re the one who acts as the supposed Princess’s lackey, you, who claims a seat at this table only because of her. I am not blind, Pisarev. I know what you want and I know what you’re willing to do to get it, because I’ve known you. I know how you wooed for the Tsar, seducing diplomats’ wives on command. You were the Tsar’s lapdog and now you’re hers, still hoping for the same thing: power and control.’

  ‘I should call you out for that,’ Ruslan snarled. Dasha had never seen him so fierce, not even the night he’d killed the assassin in Lord Hampton’s hall. She was acutely aware that if not for her bid for the throne, if not for the state of the country, Ruslan would not have hesitated. But now, he could hardly risk killing the Rebel leader without shattering the tenuous truce. The Count had insulted Ruslan beyond the pale. Ruslan’s face was drawn tight, exhaustion prominent in the starkness of his cheekbones. Whatever leash Ruslan had himself on wasn’t going to last much longer.