Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Call off your dog, Princess. Show us he is under your control and not the other way around,’ Ryabkin growled, sitting back in his chair, secure in the blasted knowledge that she could do no less. ‘He is using you, whoever you are, for his own gain. It’s what he’s been trained for.’ He gave an evil stare. ‘But maybe that’s all right with you.’

  Dasha glanced around the table. Was no one else going to stop Ryabkin? No one met her eyes. Of course not. Ryabkin had them all cowed, all of them afraid they’d be the next victims of his threats. Dasha cleared her throat. She would not give him the complete satisfaction. She chose her words with care, keeping them neutral, and focused on him instead of Ruslan. ‘Count, I would like to return to the work at hand before it grows much later.’ Servants had set out the lamps. People were tired and tempers were high after another day of getting little accomplished but soothing ruffled feathers. But perhaps the more rational among them would sleep on the ideas discussed and wake up inspired. A girl could hope.

  Ryabkin turned his sneer her way. ‘No. No, I will not return to work. I am done taking orders from a woman who claims to be a princess, and an exiled prince.’ He rose, bracing his hands on the polished table, eyeing each member of the table in turn. ‘I will listen to her when we exhume the grave and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt who she is.’ His gaze swept the rest of the council. ‘I suggest the rest of you do the same. When I wake up, I expect a message telling me the time and the place. Until then, I will not sit down and negotiate.’ The Count was holding the council hostage until he got his way. He knew full well nothing could be decided without him.

  What did she do now? Ryabkin had trussed up the council like a Christmas goose. She fought the urge to turn to Ruslan, to seek direction in his gaze, knowing to do so would be a grave error. To glance at him now, while the council was looking to her to calm the uncertainty Ryabkin left behind, was to add credence to Ryabkin’s slanderous claims about her virtue and Ruslan’s ambition. She turned instead to her father’s old ally. ‘Serebrov, please conclude the session and make whatever arrangements are required.’ And she departed the room with all the dignity left to her, hoping no one guessed just how much turmoil her thoughts were in.

  Dasha staggered in the hall, putting out a hand to the wall to keep herself from falling. Ryabkin’s tirade had been overwhelming. Exhumation! Not just of the bodies but of nasty ‘truths’ as well. Dasha stumbled over the thought. Ruslan! Part of her hoped he’d come after her, even as the more logical part of her brain knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t. He was aware of the risks of such a choice as she was. If he had, she could have confronted him, could have laid Ryabkin’s charges to rest. Was he right? Was Ruslan using her? She shouldn’t even think it and yet how could she ignore the accusations when they so neatly provided the answers she’d been seeking?

  The accusations made sense. Hadn’t she been looking for an explanation for Ruslan’s kindness, an explanation for his level of investment and risk in her? Ryabkin’s revelations certainly offered that explanation. It was the second time he’d introduced them. But she didn’t want to accept them. Accepting such conclusions made a lie of all she and Ruslan had shared. It called into question her good judgement, it questioned all she knew to be true. How could she rule a nation if she’d so badly misjudged a single man? She tamped down on the doubts. She was not wrong. Ruslan cared for her. She was wrong to let the insinuations of a man who wanted her removed or dead destroy what she and Ruslan had so carefully built.

  * * *

  But tamping down those doubts was easier said than done. Alone in her room, haunted by doubts over Ruslan and over what the grave might reveal, it was no surprise sleep did not come. After hours of tossing, Dasha threw off the covers and lit a lamp, her mind full of what ifs. What if Ryabkin was right? What if she wasn’t the Princess? What if he was wrong? What if his outlandish request was more than a ploy to torture her? What if it was a sign of desperation? It would be a dangerous victory for her.

  Finding there weren’t enough bodies would prove her infallibility, but such a defining act would force the Rebels to either accept her or eliminate her permanently. She feared the latter. Deep in her gut, she knew Ryabkin had no intentions of accepting her leadership even if the Rebels would. She calmed herself with reminders. She had faced assassination before. But then, Ruslan had been beside her. Then, she’d trusted him implicitly. Today, whether she willed it or not, Ryabkin had cracked the armour of that implicit trust a little further.

  You chose this, came the punishing mantra.

  Yes. She had and she didn’t want it any more. She wanted to un-choose it. How many times had she wished for the impossible? To go back in time to those early days in London when the choice was still hers? She didn’t want to be Queen, not if it meant being alone, not if it meant being without Ruslan, not if it meant questioning the motives of the man she loved.

  There was nothing for it. She could not sit here and stew. She had to confront him before things went further, consequences be damned. Dasha got up and searched for a cloak. Ruslan would not come to her. But she could go to him. And tonight she would. Whatever happened tomorrow, she was done being alone. Politics and plots could be damned.

  * * *

  Dammit, not now. A soft knock on his chamber door shortly after midnight had Ruslan gritting his teeth. He set aside his reading, a copy of Locke’s Concerning Human Understanding, and tightened the sash on his banyan. He’d been looking for enlightenment and a way forward. His mind needed a break from meetings and managing people, from thinking about Dasha and the horror on her face when Ryabkin had uttered his remarks, exhuming more than bodies, exhuming doubt, which was just as dangerous. Ryabkin thought to divide them. Every bone in Ruslan’s body cried out to go to her, to comfort her, to protect her. He pushed a hand through his hair. Oh, God, what she must be feeling, knowing what Ryabkin demanded of her. He wanted to hold her, to tell her it would be all right, that she need not be scared. Would she believe him or did she believe Ryabkin’s cruel hypotheses? That he’d orchestrated all this for his own gain? That he’d seduced her for his own purposes?

  The knock came again, more persistent this time. It would not be ignored. Ruslan gave a resigned sigh. Apparently, there was one more item that needed his attention. He uttered a single, terse word, ‘Come.’

  He regretted the harshness of his command immediately. It was not a politician who slipped inside his rooms, but Dasha, swathed in a cloak, the white of a nightdress peeping beneath its folds, a midnight vision in wool and white silk. She’d come for answers, of course.

  She simply stood in the room and spoke one choked word. ‘Ruslan.’

  Only then did he realise she’d been crying. ‘I can’t...’ Her voice broke. Her face told the rest of the story.

  I can’t do this any more. Not alone. Not without you. I need you. I want you.

  Desire and desperation were naked in her eyes. She had not sought him out for answers alone.

  Ruslan crossed the room towards her, he would reach her in two strides but Dasha was unwilling to wait. She met him halfway. Then, she was in his arms, her mouth taking the hungry, needy onslaught of his. Weeks of denial had led to this. ‘God, Dasha.’ His voice was husky against her throat. If he did not devour every inch of her, his body would explode. He was the starving man and she the feast. ‘I cannot be gentle about this.’

  ‘Then, for heaven’s sake, don’t be.’ Her response trembled with the weight of her own desire, her hands digging into the depths of his hair for anchorage, for leverage, holding him to her as much as he held her.

  Ruslan lifted her legs, taking them about his waist, and bore her back against the sitting-room wall with a primal growl of promise. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She wished for his hands on her aching breasts, for his mouth on her pulsing mons, for his tongue at her seam, for his cock inside her, h
ard and strong, anything that would push her thoughts towards oblivion. She framed his face with her hands as he pushed back the silky folds of her nightdress, baring her thighs, as he balanced her between his body and the wall. ‘Ruslan, I want you inside me, now. I can’t wait. Don’t make me wait.’ After months of wanting to remember, all she wanted to do tonight was forget, to obliterate Ryabkin’s potent cynicism with Ruslan’s lovemaking. A man who could bring her such pleasure, who could look at her with such a gaze, surely would not betray her. Surely the very intensity of his lovemaking was powerful evidence against Ryabkin’s claims.

  His banyan fell to the floor and he answered with a deep, hard thrust that had her arching against the wall and moaning inanities of relief. She had needed this, needed him—oh, how she’d needed him! She locked her legs about his lean hips, her body joining him in the heated rhythm of his thrust and pull, his mouth on hers, swallowing her cries in rough kisses that devoured and delighted. She wanted to be used, wanted to be marked by this man, owned by this man who understood her so well, who’d respected her decision to return to Kuban, even at the expense of their own happiness.

  And still, he had proven stalwart beyond measure these past weeks, tireless and protective on her behalf. The image of his knife slicing through the Count’s sleeve when he’d grabbed for her wrist remained imprinted in her mind even weeks later. The Count hadn’t stood a chance against the speed of Ruslan’s blade, or the speed of Ruslan’s mind. Ruslan was two steps ahead of the man, ahead of all of them, all the time. He had countermoves for moves that hadn’t yet been made.

  Ruslan’s hips ground into hers, hard and relentless in the pursuit of their passion. Climax wasn’t far off now and her body revelled in it, in being set free if only for a few moments. His final thrust came and they fell into oblivion, his body taking hers with it in a powerful, explosive release she’d been craving. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her hands gripped his shoulders, feeling his body slicked with the sweat of his exertions. His mouth was buried against her shoulder, his breathing laboured. She put a soft hand to his head, stroking lightly. ‘There now, everything is better now.’ A beautiful truth if only for a while. The darkness would be back. Ryabkin with his barbaric remarks would return. But for now there was bliss. For now there was obliteration.

  Ruslan carried her to the bed, his phallus still deep inside her, where she knew it would rouse again. She didn’t care. Let him take her over and over tonight without respite. She wanted to give him everything they’d denied themselves these long weeks. Already he was growing hard again. His lovemaking would be gentler this time, now that the initial thirst of desire had been slaked. He worked her nightgown up over her head and made a trail of slow kisses down her neck, her breast bone, taking one nipple at a time in his wicked mouth.

  ‘I miss you and to what end? I hoped our separation would keep you safe.’ She was drowsy now. What a delightful way to fall asleep: Ruslan’s mouth at her breast, his phallus deep inside her where she could feel him coming to life, her mind free of doubt. A man who could love like this could be guilty of nothing, ‘But people accused you anyway. Ryabkin has all but called me a whore and you my throne-hugging paramour,’ she said with drowsy distaste, but in the wake of Ruslan’s kisses, the words lacked any real invective. There was no room for hate in this bed. She hadn’t wanted Ruslan to throw himself away on her, but he’d done it anyway. She hadn’t been able to stop him. He’d waded into the fray, knife drawn, his wit razor-sharp. ‘I couldn’t protect you, it was all for nothing.’ Her doubts seemed silly now. Too silly to bring up.

  ‘Never, Dasha.’ Ruslan kissed her mouth. ‘I have never considered anything I’ve done with you as thrown away.’ He began to move inside her and she sighed, her body relaxing around him. This was pleasure at its finest. She twined her arms about his neck and smiled up at her lover. Yes, her lover. She would acknowledge the terms now. The tempo of his thrusts quickened and she matched him with her hips. Ruslan had never failed her. He’d saved her life, he’d stood as her objective, worthy counsel, encouraged her to explore choices. But beneath it all, he’d wanted her for herself, memory or not, princess or not. It had taken these weeks in Kuban to realise that and the rareness of it. She felt her pleasure build in response. There would be release once more, sanctuary once more. In his arms, she didn’t have to be a princess.

  They lay quiet after that, bodies happily replete. She rested her head on his shoulder, her finger making idle circles around the flats of his nipples. ‘Will the Count actually dig up the bodies?’ Dasha asked. Now, perhaps they could talk a bit, safely, softly, secure in the privacy of Ruslan’s bed, the heavy damask cover pulled up over them for warmth against the cold early winter nights, the bed curtains drawn about them. They might be the only people in the world in this cocoon.

  ‘Yes, he won’t be satisfied. I am sorry, Dasha.’ His hand moved up her arm, warm and firm, raising delicious goose bumps in its wake.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she whispered. ‘I know I should be brave. But I don’t know how I will stand there and look at the bodies. I can’t imagine...’ Her voice broke and she had to stop speaking. She feared the things she’d remember at the sight of those bodies. All the grief she’d held back for lack of remembering would flood her. It would no longer be a general grief but a personal one. It was her family in the ground.

  ‘You will bear it because I will be beside you. You will bear it because you will call the Count’s bluff. Not only will you show up tomorrow, you will be there when he is proven wrong. The Moderates will side with you out of empathy if nothing else. You are not the only one who finds Ryabkin’s request barbarous in the extreme. His latest gambit will serve you far better than it will serve him. He has handed you victory and he doesn’t realise it yet.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Dasha murmured. ‘So soon?’ She’d hoped for a day or two’s reprieve, hoped that someone would talk Ryabkin out of it in the interval. But Ryabkin had got what he wanted.

  ‘Yes. We need him back at the table. We need progress. The Rebels grow restless with all the talking and nothing to show for it.’

  Dasha sighed. ‘Where are Grigoriev and Varvakis? I thought they’d be here by now.’ Every day she looked for them like a general waiting for reinforcements.

  She felt Ruslan shrug in the dark. ‘Any day, I think. Don’t worry, Dasha. I have men out looking for them. Messengers will come with news of their arrival the moment they are in sight.’

  Dasha was not fooled by the assurance. ‘You’re worried, too.’ She levered up on an elbow, trying to see him better. Ruslan was so seldom worried that it was worth noting.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I had expected them last week and if not that, at least sight of them.’

  ‘You don’t think anyone rode out to do them deliberate harm?’ Dasha tried to piece together the rationale for such violence and couldn’t make it work. Such action seemed too rash.

  ‘No. The Count and the Rebels can only stand to gain from British assistance. The Loyalists can’t touch them because it would be too obvious and they would immediately be blamed if something happened. For the Moderates, it’s simply not worth the risk,’ Ruslan reasoned. ‘But power-hungry Kubanian politicians aren’t the only danger.’ There were highway brigands, swollen rivers, snowy mountains, storms at sea. Any one of those occurrences would put a large entourage behind schedule.

  Ruslan snuggled her close and she welcome the warmth of him. ‘Sleep now, Dasha. The morning will come too soon.’

  She would sleep, soundly, for the first time in weeks. ‘I have one request. Wake me at dawn. I would see the sunrise with you.’ There would be time for lovemaking, for a final memory to fortify her against the horrors that awaited. Tomorrow would be best when it was over.

  * * *

  Ruslan woke her at dawn, as promised, with warm kisses on the back of her neck, her body spooned into the curve of his. Oh, to wake like this every
morning.

  She reached up a hand to stroke the stubble of his beard, liking the masculine rub of it against her hand. ‘Mmm.’ His phallus prodded against her bottom in welcome.

  ‘Don’t move, don’t do a thing. I want to take you like this.’ Ruslan’s whisper was hoarse at her ear. ‘From behind, your body tucked against mine.’ He came into her as he spoke, a gentle easing that took her breath away with its tenderness. ‘My mouth at your neck, your breasts in my hands.’ He sheathed himself in a long, slow motion, creating a delicious anticipation that started low in her belly. ‘Sweet heavens, Dasha, how you fit me so well.’ His thumbs ran over her breasts and she moaned, loving his wicked words as much as the press of his body. She could climax on his words alone.

  ‘Like this, you’re all mine.’ Ruslan thrust again, holding her tight against him, his hands anchored on her breasts, reminding her that she was entirely in his thrall. Her pleasure was at his mercy and her body wept for it. But Ruslan did not disappoint, did not seek to play a game of torture, but to satisfy them both. They would both have their moment, that place in time where the line between falling apart and coming together became very grey indeed.

  * * *

  The sun was long past rising when Dasha woke the next time. Ruslan was up, her body knew it immediately the way a body could sense when another beloved has entered the same room. The low murmur of voices in the other room confirmed it. She was thankful for the bed draperies that hid her, although she knew Ruslan would not allow anyone to discover her here. There was a brisk command from Ruslan followed by the shutting of the door. Then nothing, only silence. Not the rustling of the movement or the clinking of breakfast china. Not the sound of Ruslan’s bare feet padding across the floor towards her. Ruslan was a busy man, always in motion. The silence, the lack of movement seemed ominous.