by Lisa Kleypas
Nikolas approached her with the object clutched in his fist. “Recognize this?”
Tasia shook her head. He unfolded the garment and held it up. A cry was torn from her throat. She sat rigidly against the wall, her gaze riveted on the white tunic that Mikhail had worn the night of his death. It was designed in the traditional Russian style of the boyars, with a high gold-embroidered collar and long, wide sleeves. Ugly brown and black stains covered the front of the tunic…the residue of Mikhail's blood.
“I've been saving it for this occasion,” Nikolas said softly. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened the night my brother died…his last words, the look on his face…everything. You owe it to me.”
“I don't remember,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Then have a closer look. Perhaps this will jar your memory.”
“Nikolas, please—”
“Look at it.”
Tasia stared at the blood-crusted garment, the contents of her stomach pushing upward. She tried to hold down her gorge, but it seemed that the sickening-sweet smell of fresh blood was in her nostrils, the air was warm and rank around her…and the objects in the room began to revolve in a steady whirl. “I'm going to be sick,” she said thickly, her mouth filling with a sour taste. “Take it away…”
“Tell me what happened to Misha.” He held it even closer, until the dried brown stains filled her vision. She moaned and held her hand over her mouth, gagging. Suddenly he shoved a basin beneath her bowed head, and she vomited in violent spasms. Tears streamed from her eyes. Blindly she accepted a linen towel he handed her, and dried her face.
She looked up again and recoiled in horror as she saw that Nikolas was putting on the tunic, the garment straining over his shoulders, the death-pattern spread down his front. It had been a waterfall of bright red when Misha had worn the tunic, the knife protruding from his throat, his eyes bulging with pain and fear as he staggered toward her, reaching out for her—
“Nooooo—” she screamed, flailing with her stiff arms as Nikolas came nearer, a nightmare come to life—stayawaystayaway—her screams shot through the room, and her head was filled with a brilliant light, exploding, suddenly eclipsed by merciful darkness. The memory came back in a devastating flood. “Misha,” she sobbed, and fell slowly into the endless black pit, where there was no speech, no sight, no sound, nothing but the pieces of her shattered soul.
Nine
Nikolas was waiting by the bed when Tasia returned to consciousness. He had removed the stained tunic. In spite of his air of cold calmness, he was sweating from some strong emotion, perhaps anxiety or anger. The black shirt clung damply to his golden skin. He wanted so badly to know, she thought with an unwarranted flicker of pity. Was he motivated by grief for his dead brother, or merely a desire for justice?
Dazed, Tasia stared at him and licked her dry lips. “I'll tell you what happened that night,” she said hoarsely. “Every detail. But first I need some water.”
Nikolas poured her a glass of water and brought it to her without a word. He sat on the bed, watching as she levered herself to an upright position. She drank thirstily.
Tasia hardly knew how to begin. The memory had come to her in full-bodied strength, and with it all the emotions she had felt that night. But finally knowing the truth, being able to tell someone, filled her with relief.
“I didn't want the engagement with Misha,” she said. “From everything I knew and heard of him, he was a strange, tormented man who played with people as a child plays with dolls. I didn't hate him as much as I feared him. Everyone was pleased by the engagement, telling me I would be a good influence on him.” She laughed bitterly. “I think they had somehow convinced themselves that I might be able to tempt him into liking women. Shallow, stupid people! Even in my innocence I knew that a man who desired boys was never going to want me in his bed. At best I would have been a front for Mikhail, to give him the image of a properly married man. At worst, I would have been an object of perverted amusement for him, someone to hurt and degrade. He would have given me to other men, and made me do unnatural things no human being should do—”
“You don't know that for certain.”
“Yes, I do,” she said softly. “And so do you.” When Nikolas didn't answer, she finished her water and continued. “I came to the conclusion that I was trapped. My own mother insisted on the marriage. It was strange, but the only one I could turn to for help was Misha himself. I considered it for several days. Finally I decided that I had nothing to lose by talking to him. There was a chance he would listen. There was something childlike about Misha—at times he seemed like a little boy wanting attention. And he had moments of capriciousness. I thought I might be able to convince him to release me from the engagement. A few words from him could have changed my fate so easily…so I went to him one night, to plead with him in private.”
Tasia set the empty glass aside and twisted her fingers into a knot. Her eyes fixed on the woolen blanket that was folded in a rectangle and draped over the end of the bed. Staring steadily at the blanket, she spoke in a dreamlike manner.
“The palace was nearly empty. Only a skeleton staff was there to attend to Misha's needs. I wore a shawl over my hair, and pulled it low to hide my face. The front door was unlocked. I entered without knocking or ringing the bell. Some of the servants saw me wandering through the palace, but they didn't try to stop me. I was very nervous. I remember hoping that Misha hadn't smoked so much opium that he would be insensible. At first I couldn't find him. I went upstairs and went from room to room. It was very messy. There was a smell in the air, like smoke and bad wine and rotting food. There were piles of furs and silk pillows on the floors, and half-eaten meals, and strange objects that Misha must have used for…well, I didn't know what they were for. Nor did I care to.”
Tasia's hands unclenched, and she made a fluttering motion, as if to pull something from her hair. “It was very warm in the house. I took off the shawl…” Her fingers went to her throat and pressed to her throbbing pulse. “I called his name once or twice…‘Misha, where are you?’…but no one answered. I thought perhaps he might be in the library, sitting with his pipe. I walked to the end of the hall. Voices…two voices were arguing loudly, passionately, and a man was crying…”
The memory swept over her, and Tasia lost awareness of speaking.
“Misha, I love you, a thousand times more than she ever could. She'll never be able to give you what you need.”
“You jealous, wrinkled old fool,” Mikhail replied. “You know nothing about what I need.”
“I won't share you with anyone, especially not a spoiled girl.”
Mikhail's voice was silky, amused, taunting. “Does it bother you to think of her in my bed? That fresh young body, all that innocence waiting to be corrupted…”
“Misha, don't torment me like this!”
“I don't want you anymore. Leave now, and never come back. The sight of you tires me. In fact, it makes me sick.”
“No, you're my life, you're everything—”
“I'm sick of your sniveling and whining and your pathetic attempts at lovemaking. I'd rather do it with a dog. Now get out of here.”
The other man howled in agony, screaming and sobbing. There was a cry of surprise, a scuffle, violent sounds…
“I was terrified,” Tasia said, trying to steady her voice. The taste of tears was fresh on her lips, stinging the cracked surface. “But I couldn't stop myself from going into the room. I wasn't thinking, I had no idea what had happened. The other man was standing there like a wax statue. Mikhail was staggering away from him. Then Misha saw me, and started to make his way to me. There was so much blood, and the knife was sticking out of his throat, and he reached for me, staring…as if he were begging for my help. I froze in place. I couldn't seem to make my feet move, and then…Misha fell on top of me…and everything went black. When I woke, the letter-knife was in my hand, sticky with blood. The other man made it look as if I had killed Mikhail,
but I didn't.” She gave an incredulous, tear-blurred laugh. “All these months I thought I had murdered a man. I suffered the most agonizing guilt, and no amount of prayer, fasting, or repentance could absolve it…but I didn't do it.;
“What is the name of the man who killed Misha?” Nikolas asked softly.
“Samvel Ignatyich, Count Shurikovsky. I know without a doubt. I met him once at the Winter Palace.”
Nikolas showed no reaction. He stood and regarded her with those unnerving eyes. Slowly he walked away.
As he reached the door, Tasia spoke. “You don't believe me?”
“No.”
Tasia considered that for a moment. “It doesn't matter. I know the truth now.”
Nikolas turned and smiled with contempt. “Count Shurikovsky is a respected man and a devoted husband, who happens to be the companion-favorite of the tsar. For years Shurikovsky has been the tsar's closest confidant and most trusted adviser, and the strongest supporter of his reforms. Without Shurikovsky's influence, the serfs of all the Russias would never have been liberated nine years ago. On top of all that, he's just been appointed governor of St. Petersburg. I find it charming that you chose to name Shurikovsky as my brother's lover and murderer. Why not say it was the tsar himself?”
“The truth is the truth,” she said simply.
“As any Russian knows, the truth has many sides,” he sneered, leaving the cabin.
It made sense that Biddle liked ships. On a ship everything was scrubbed clean and organized and lashed down. Luke realized with a touch of sour amusement that his valet's passion for keeping all things in their rightful places was perfectly appropriate on a ship—necessary, in fact—whereas it was an annoyance everywhere else. For his part, Luke had no special fondness for the ocean, and this journey was the most miserable one he had ever undertaken.
Luke paced between his cabin and the deck of the schooner, seldom stopping for long at either place. He couldn't relax, couldn't sit or stand still. He ate reluctantly and talked only when it was imperative. By turns morose and enraged, Luke entertained himself with thoughts of what he was going to do to Nikolas Angelovsky when he found him. He was terrified for Tasia's safety, and he was overwhelmed with self-hatred. He had failed her. He was supposed to be her protector. Through his lack of foresight, she had been stolen away with consummate ease.
The possibility of losing Tasia wasn't something he let himself think about, except at night when his dreams betrayed him. After Mary had died, he had been able to go on with some semblance of a normal life. He couldn't this time. Losing Tasia would break him permanently. He would have no love, no kindness to offer anyone, not even his daughter.
One night Luke stood at the stern of the ship for hours, staring at the wide, foam-ruffled wake it left in its path. It was late, and the sky was starless, a dull pewter shade with darker clouds streaked across. The sound of the waves was rhythmic and soothing. He remembered the night he had held Tasia and listened to the forest music with her, one of the ridiculous, sublime moments that only lovers would understand…and suddenly he felt her with him so intensely that he half-expected to turn and see her there. He looked down at the gold ring that had belonged to her father, and the memory of her voice was sweet in his ears…“It says, ‘Love is a golden vessel, it bends but never breaks.’”
And his reply…“We'll be all right, you and I.”
His hand clenched into a fist. “I'm coming for you,” he said, his rough voice mingling with the wind. “I'll find you soon, Tasia.”
Ten
St. Petersburg, Russia
As soon as the anchors were let go from the catheads and the ship was moored at the wharf, Luke and Biddle went ashore. There was a marketplace near the St. Petersburg Admiralty and shipyards. Luke made his way toward the main thoroughfare, while Biddle followed carrying their bags. They strode into the middle of a scene more foreign than any Luke had experienced before. Buildings, walls, and doors were painted with vivid colors that gave the area a circuslike atmosphere. The merchants wore long red or blue tunics, while the women wore flowered headscarves. Everyone seemed to be singing. Vendors called out musical descriptions of their wares, pedestrians hummed or sang as they meandered down the street—it gave Luke a discomforting feeling of conspicuousness, as if he had inadvertently wandered onto an opera stage.
Luke smelled fish everywhere. In addition to the strong scent that drifted from the ocean and the fish rafts on the Neva River, the market was filled with every conceivable kind of catch. Salmon, pike, eel, perch, and huge sturgeon reposed in crates stuffed with melting ice. A half-dozen shades of caviar were sold in large casks. Tiny translucent fish were bought by the shovelful and carried away in sacks and buckets. In the heat, their odor was so rank that any self-respecting English cat would have turned its nose up at them. “Znitki,” one of the merchants explained, grinning at Luke's obvious repulsion.
The color and confusion of St. Petersburg were common to any large city—except that here it was more colorful and more confused than any place he'd been in his life. The streets were congested with people, animals, and vehicles. The river and canals were cluttered with boats of all sizes. There were churches of every denomination, ringing bells in a noisy cacophony. After ten minutes Luke gave up all attempts to make sense of it. He didn't intend to stay in St. Petersburg long enough to know anything more about it than he already did. All he wanted was to retrieve his wife, and never set eyes on Russia again.
Biddle, however, was not so easily daunted. He set about subduing the city, with an umbrella tucked firmly beneath one arm and a copy of the British Traveler's Handbook for Russia in the other hand. They wandered through the marketplace, past a row of stalls filled with a profusion of exotic flowers. A chattering tea seller came up to them, bearing a leather case filled with glasses and a pitcher full of brown liquid he called kvas, and thick slices of ginger cake. At Luke's curt nod, Biddle purchased two glasses of the stuff, and some cake. Kvas turned out to be a mild rye beer flavored with honey. Strange, but not unpleasant, Luke thought, finishing the drink.
The faces of the Russians interested him. Most of them were fair, with elegant features and blue eyes, but many had a more exotic Eastern appearance; broad faces and beautiful slanted eyes. Tasia's looks were a combination of both, melded into delicate and exquisite harmony. At the thought of his wife, his throat became tight, and the agonized fury that had been with him ever since her abduction began to build.
“Sir?” Biddle questioned nervously, apparently alarmed by his expression. “Was the beverage not to your liking?”
“The Kurkov Palace,” Luke muttered. That was where the English ambassador was lodged. It was all he could bring himself to say.
“Right away, my lord.” Gamely Biddle wandered to the streetside and began gesturing with his umbrella. “I will attempt to hire a hack. The book says these are called something like, er, drozhki, and not to be disturbed if the driver carries on a conversation with the horse. They talk to their horses here.”
They rented a tiny open carriage and told the driver to take them to the English embassy. In accord with Biddle's prediction, the driver kept up a running dialogue with his horse, named Osip. The vehicle moved through the city at an unholy pace, like every other contraption on the streets. Often the driver screamed to warn pedestrians of their approach. Twice they nearly mowed down people crossing the road. Whether it was in a rickety cart or a fine lacquered carriage, Russians drove exceptionally fast.
St. Petersburg was a city of stone, water, and bridges. Even Luke, with his predisposition to hate everything about the place, had to admit it was beautiful. According to Biddle's recitation from the British Traveler's Handbook, St. Petersburg had been willed into existence a little more than a century and a half ago by the desire of Peter the Great to bring Western culture to Russia. Peter had succeeded magnificently. Some parts of the city seemed almost more European than Europe itself. The carriage passed astonishing rows of sumptuous palaces set
along the granite embankments of the river. There were lions everywhere, made of stone, bronze, and iron, placed to guard bridges and buildings with their frozen grimaces.
The English ambassador, Lord Bramwell, was lodged at the handsome Kurkov Palace. It was located on eastern Nevsky Prospekt, the central street of the city. The carriage stopped in front of the building, a classical structure with pediments and tall white columns. Luke climbed out and strode up the wide marble steps, leaving Biddle to struggle with the bags and pay the driver. Two huge cossacks dressed in scarlet tunics and high black boots guarded the doors of the palace.
“I've come to see Lord Bramwell,” Luke said brusquely.
The cossacks conferred with each other. One of them answered in broken English. “Is not possible,” he said with a threatening stare.
“Why?”
“Lord Bramvell giving banquet for governor of city. Come later. Tomorrow. Next veek, maybe.”
Luke glanced at Biddle in dismay. “Did you hear that? We're late for the banquet—” As he spoke, he turned and drove his fist deep into the cossack's stomach, causing him to double over. A blow to the back of the neck sent the man to a crumpled heap on the stairs. The other guard started for Luke, but froze with a gasp as Luke brandished his left arm. Luke smiled with patent menace, fully aware of the silver hook's shock value. “Come on,” he invited softly.
The cossack shook his head swiftly, staring at the hook. He backed away and eased down the stairs.
“Sir, I've never seen you like this,” Biddle murmured, looking at Luke in concern.
“You've seen me hit a man before.”
“Yes, but you didn't seem to enjoy it quite so much—”
“I'm just getting started,” Luke muttered, and pushed open the front doors.
The palace was filled with ivy, magnolias, and orchids. There were miles of polished wooden floors, with inlaid patterns of contrasting colors that gave them the appearance of Persian carpets. Liveried servants were positioned at every corner, standing as still as statues. Not a single pair of eyes lifted to Luke's face. “Where is Lord Bramwell?” he asked one of them. When that failed to provoke a response, he repeated impatiently, “Bramwell.”