by Kate Bateman
Vasili pushed the priest aside, caught Anya around the waist, and pulled her back against his body to act as a human shield.
“In here!” Anya shouted, then gasped as Vasili squeezed her ribs hard enough to crush the air from her lungs. She froze as the cold metal of his pistol kissed her temple.
“Be still,” he commanded.
There was a deafening crash and the splintering of wood as the door to the cabin was kicked in. Wolff shouldered his way through, a pair of pistols aimed straight at Vasili. But he stilled when he saw Anya held captive in front of him.
“Hold!” Vasili shouted.
Anya’s heart quailed. Wolff looked both savage and magnificent. Blood was smeared across his cheek—she couldn’t tell if it was his own or not. His cravat was askew and the arm of his jacket had been ripped at the shoulder. It gaped open to reveal the stark white of his shirt. His chest rose and fell in a series of uneven gusts.
The expression on his face was one she’d never seen before. Two spots of red flushed his cheekbones, but his eyes were cold, almost entirely black as he glared at Vasili. He looked like an avenging angel searching for a soul to claim, and Anya’s heart swelled with terror and love. Behind him stood Wylde and Harland, one on each side, both with pistols at the ready.
“Let her go,” Sebastien said coldly.
Vasili’s arm tightened around her waist. “Put your weapons down. I have the advantage. You’re too much the gentleman to shoot a woman.” He let that sink in for a moment then added, “Whereas we both know I’m a heartless bastard with nothing to lose. I’ll have no difficulty at all in shooting my wife. She’s served her purpose, after all.”
Wolff’s gaze flicked to hers for an agonized moment, then narrowed in renewed fury on Vasili’s face. “Wife?” he whispered.
“That’s right,” Vasili crowed. “You’re too late. We’ve already wed. She’s mine.”
Anya gasped. “No! That’s not—oof!” Her denial was cut off by another cruel jerk of Vasili’s arm.
A muscle ticked in Wolff’s jaw, but he didn’t lower his pistol. Anya opened her eyes very wide, silently pleading with him to take a shot. He was an excellent marksman. He’d shot that highwayman on Hounslow Heath in a similar situation, hadn’t he? Surely there was some part of Vasili he could hit without endangering her. She suddenly remembered she was holding the map pin. Perhaps if she ducked and stabbed Vasili somewhere?
But the frustration on Wolff’s face showed that Vasili had guessed the truth; Seb wouldn’t fire while there was a gun to her head. No matter how good a shot he was, he wouldn’t risk Vasili’s finger tightening on the trigger in a reflex action.
Anya almost sobbed as he used his thumbs to uncock the pistols. He lowered them, but his eyes still burned with the promise of vengeance. “You might have married her, but she’ll never be yours.” His gaze flicked to her, and the emotion she saw there made her stomach swoop. “You’ll be a widow soon enough.”
“Step back,” Vasili snarled. “You and your friends get off this ship or she dies.”
Wolff’s lips flattened into an angry line, but he did as Vasili commanded. Anya bit back a whimper as he backed through the shattered remains of the door and retreated across the deck.
Please. Don’t leave me! I love you!
She pressed her lips closed to stop the traitorous words. A strange lassitude was stealing over her, a kind of tingling lethargy, and her stomach swooped as she realized its cause; the potion was starting to work. Please God that it would start to affect Vasili too.
The tense standoff was shattered by an eerie, inhuman groan that echoed from the depths of the ship.
Everyone froze as a hunched figure stumbled up the steps from below. When he straightened, Anya was confused to see an old man, wearing nothing but a cotton nightshirt. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was intruding on a battlefield. He peered around the crowded deck, groaning piteously and clutching his forehead as though he’d received a recent blow.
Vasili frowned at the ancient figure. “Father Barukov?” His head whipped around to the priest in the cabin. “Then who—?”
Anya had completely forgotten about the clergyman. He turned from the table in a swirl of cloth and swept the cowl from his head.
The world dipped out of focus and Anya’s knees almost gave out as she beheld a face she’d thought never to see again in this life.
No. It was the potion. Her brother was dead and—
“Surprised to see me, Petrov?” Dmitri said calmly, and Anya let out a croak of astonishment as the rumbling voice matched the beloved face. The impossible miracle of her brother—alive, here—engulfed her like a tidal wave.
Vasili let out an almost inhuman growl. “You’re dead! I saw you myself at Waterloo.”
Dmitri’s blue eyes, so similar to her own, gleamed in fury. “Yes, you saw me, you bastard. You searched what you thought was my corpse.”
Anya couldn’t stop staring at Dmitri’s face. He looked the same, and yet subtly different. Older, more careworn. His hair was longer, shaggier, and she’d never seen him with a beard, but it was indisputably him. Her entire body began to shake, and she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She sagged back against Vasili, heedless of the gun still pressed to her temple. The world started to spin.
Vasili hauled her back upright with an angry hiss. “Stand up.”
Dmitri reached slowly into his clerical robes and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “This is what you’re after, Petrov. Your letter to General Ney. You tell him the Tsar’s army’s too far away to help the British if he attacks immediately.”
Vasili’s chest rose and fell in deep gusts against her back. The pistol’s muzzle shook by her ear. He was clearly as shocked as she was to see her brother alive.
“Give it to me,” he panted.
Dmitri held the paper out toward them. “Take it.”
Anya immediately saw his intent; Vasili would either have to release her or take the pistol from her head if he wanted the letter.
He seemed to realize it at the same moment. “You take it,” he ordered her with another painful squeeze to her ribs.
With a trembling hand, she reached forward and took the folded note.
Vasili grunted his pleasure and angled his chin at Dmitri. “Now get out. Don’t make me shoot your sister.”
Dmitri’s gaze flicked to hers as he edged sideways toward the exit, his hands up near his ears in a gesture of surrender. He sent her a sweet, heartbreaking smile, almost an apology.
“You can have the letter, Petrov,” he said softly. “I’ve already shown it to the Tsar. He’s proclaimed you a traitor to Russia. There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
Anya gasped as Vasili jolted against her back. Dmitri was completely exposed in the doorway. He wasn’t even covered by the men outside; his body was blocking any shot they could take. Her chest felt as though it were being crushed, and not simply from Vasili’s iron grip. Her brave, foolish brother was trying to goad Vasili into shooting him, instead of her.
Oh, God. She couldn’t lose him. Not when she’d just found him again.
“Devil!” Vasili roared. In a single movement, he shoved Anya away from him and aimed his gun at Dmitri’s chest.
“No!” With all her strength, Anya stabbed the map pin she was holding into Vasili’s shoulder. He roared in fury as his gun went off, a deafening report in the enclosed space. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dmitri stagger back against the map table in a flurry of black-and-gold cloth.
Vasili swung on her with a shout of fury. He backhanded her, catching her with the muzzle of the pistol, and pain exploded in her skull. She fell back, dazed, and heard Elizaveta scream a warning. She lifted her arms to shield her head, anticipating another blow, but it never came.
Another shot rang out, the sound like the crack of a tree limb breaking. In the stunned silence that followed, she lowered her hands to see Vasili frozen in front of her, his eyes wide in shock. His mouth opened as
if he was about to ask her a question, but then he glanced down at his chest, coughed once, and simply collapsed at her feet.
Anya stared down at him in confusion, expecting him to get up, to grab for her, but he remained utterly motionless. A neat hole the size of a sovereign had appeared on his chest. A bright ring of red began to seep outward, discoloring the pale blue fabric above his medals, and she let out a gasp of horror as she realized it was blood.
Her vision swirled. “Oh, God. Is he dead?”
“Extremely.”
Sebastien came striding across the cabin, pistols still in his hands, and the next thing she knew, she was caught in his fierce embrace. He pulled her tight against his chest and angled his body to obscure her view of Vasili’s corpse.
“Don’t look,” he ordered harshly.
His words vibrated against her, and Anya melted into the welcome comfort of his arms. Eyes closed, she clutched the front of his shirt in her fists and pressed her nose into his chest, sucking the scent of him into her lungs on a shuddering intake of breath. Her chin throbbed where Vasili had hit her, but she concentrated on Seb’s fingers threading through her hair and the hard press of his lips on the top of her head. A tremor ran through his muscles, like that of a racehorse after a fast run.
She shuddered too. “I stabbed him with a map pin.”
“Good girl.”
“It’s not true. We weren’t married.”
With a sudden gasp, she recalled Dmitri. She pulled out of Seb’s arms and surged toward the corner where he’d fallen, expecting to find him dead on the floor. But with a low groan, he pushed himself to his feet. Anya hurled herself into his arms.
“Anya!” Dmitri hugged her back as tightly as a bear.
Words came pouring out of her mouth in gasping, halting jerks as she tried to understand the incomprehensible. “It is you! You’re not dead? How is this possible? Oh, thank God, you’re here! You’re here.”
Dmitri buried his face against her shoulder then pulled back, smoothing her hair away from her damp face with shaking hands. He gazed at her, his eyes roving over her features as if greedy for the sight of her, then he pressed a hard kiss to her forehead.
“I always knew I’d find you! They said you were dead, in Paris, but I knew you were too stubborn for that.” His voice was a hoarse croak. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you? Months and months! Why didn’t you come back to St. Petersburg? Where have you been all this time?”
Both of them were talking at once, each one staring at the other as if afraid they might disappear again, each one cataloguing the changes a year of separation had wrought.
Anya felt light-headed, unreal, as if she were in some fantastical dream from which she never wanted to wake. She could scarcely draw a breath around the ball of incredulous joy welling in her chest. “What happened to you? I thought you’d been killed at Waterloo.”
He gave a watery laugh. “Almost. Bonaparte gave it a bloody good try. As did Petrov.”
He lifted his left arm so the wide sleeve of the priest’s robes slid down to his elbow and casually inspected his wrist. A bloom of red stained his shirtsleeve. Anya’s heart almost stopped.
“You’re bleeding! He hit you!”
Dmitri shrugged and squeezed her with his free arm. “He grazed me when he fired wide, that’s all. It would have been my head if you hadn’t distracted him, clever girl.”
Anya felt faint at how easily her impulsive move could have backfired, but a noise from behind them interrupted her self-recrimination. Elizaveta stood in the doorway, her eyes brimming with tears and her smile wide, despite her split lip. Wolff, Harland, and Wylde all wore identical expressions of fascinated curiosity.
Well, Anya amended silently, Harland and Wylde looked curious. Wolff looked like he wanted to tear Dmitri limb from limb. He glared at her brother’s arm, which was still around her waist, and lifted his brows in haughty inquiry.
“And who on God’s green earth are you, sir?”
Chapter 37.
It took everything Seb had not to stride across the cabin, pry Anya from the handsome stranger’s arms, and carry her off into the night. He wanted to take her back to the Tricorn, strip her naked, and inspect every inch of her to convince himself that she’d come to no serious harm.
God, the sight of Petrov’s gun to her head had almost stopped his heart. And when the fake priest—whoever he was—had stepped between himself and Petrov, blocking any chance of a clear shot, he’d almost pulled the trigger anyway and risked going through some nonvital part of the man on the off chance the bullet would have enough velocity to hit Petrov too.
If the Russian hadn’t been holding Anya so closely, he would have done it. Thank God she’d created a diversion and given him a clean shot straight to Petrov’s heart.
Anya wiped her eyes and stepped toward him. She looked dazed, but so happy she was almost glowing.
“Oh, my goodness. I never thought I’d get to make this particular introduction, but Sebastien, I mean, Lord Mowbray, this is my brother. Prince Dmitri Alexei Denisov.”
Seb’s temper ratcheted down a notch. Brother. Of course. He hadn’t caught the connection amid all that frenetic Russian.
He couldn’t throw the bastard overboard after all.
Bollocks.
The man held out his hand, and Seb reached out and grasped it, noting the subtle similarities between the two of them. Same blue eyes, the same wide cheekbones. There was a definite family resemblance.
A whole raft of conflicting emotions battered at his chest. Relief that Anya was safe mingled with pleasure on her behalf because the beloved brother she’d thought was dead had, by some miracle, been restored to her.
Hot on the heels of those sensations, however, came a crushing wave of defeat. With her brother alive, she was no longer unprotected. Why would she need him?
Seb wanted to hit something again. He glanced down at the lifeless body of Vasili Petrov and could summon not an ounce of remorse for the fact that he’d just killed the man. He would have been tried and hung as a traitor, anyway. He’d just done the Tsar a favor and saved him the embarrassment of a publicly damaging court case. No doubt Sir Nathaniel at Bow Street and Lord Castlereagh at the Foreign Office would approve of such an expedient outcome to their investigation.
The real priest, a doddery old fellow with a wispy, greying beard, shuffled forward and knelt by Petrov’s side, presumably in the hope of administering last rites, but there was no chance of that. Petrov had been dead before he’d hit the ground.
A shot to the heart had been too quick, considering the torment he’d inflicted on Anya, Seb thought savagely. If he’d had the chance, he would have made sure the bastard suffered long and painfully for his actions. It was a shame he couldn’t kill him all over again. Still, the threat to Anya had been eliminated, which was what he’d set out to achieve.
God, this was the second time she’d seen him kill. First, those kidnappers back at Hounslow, and now Petrov. She must be utterly repulsed by him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Alex beat him to it.
“Delighted to meet you, Prince Denisov. I’m sure you have a great deal to discuss with your sister. May I suggest we all adjourn to somewhere more comfortable?”
Anya pulled out of her brother’s embrace but kept hold of his hand, as if she couldn’t bear to let go of him. Seb suppressed a growl.
“That is an excellent idea.” She turned to her brother. “But I’m afraid I might have to wait a little while for an explanation.”
Seb frowned. Anya’s words were slurred, her movements slow and uncoordinated. Had the blow to her jaw given her a concussion? He took a concerned step toward her. “Why?” Fear made his tone harsher than he intended. “What’s the matter?”
Anya sent him an apologetic smile. Her pupils were huge, her face rather flushed. “Because I’ve had a dose of Lagrasse’s potion. And I think it’s finally—”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Her eyes flut
tered closed. Seb caught her reflexively as she collapsed in his arms.
He sent a panicked look over at the woman in the corner, who was presumably her kidnapped friend, Elizaveta. “What did she do?” he demanded.
“She tricked Petrov into drinking some kind of sleeping potion. In the vodka.”
“Christ,” Seb breathed, appalled. “How much did she have?”
“Half the little bottle. Petrov drank the other half.”
“Bloody hell.” Panic seared his insides. He lifted Anya’s slim body and cradled her against his chest. She weighed next to nothing. “I’m taking her back to the Tricorn.”
Her brother made no objection. He tugged the clerical robe over his head to reveal a plain shirt and black breeches and sent the elderly priest an apologetic look. “Reverend Father, I do apologize for stealing your robes and knocking you down. But it was for a worthy cause.”
The priest grumbled something at him in Russian, but then he made the sign of the cross in front of his face, so Seb assumed all was forgiven. He hoped the blessing extended to Anya too. He carried her through the shattered remnants of the door.
Alex and Ben stood aside to make room, and he caught Benedict’s eye. “Someone should stay here and deal with that.” He gestured at Petrov’s body on the floor.
“Well, I’m not doing it. I left Georgie back at the ball with no explanation at all. She thinks I’m getting a drink. She’ll throttle me if I don’t get back soon.”
“Same,” Alex muttered. “Emmy hates it when I go on adventures without her.”
Seb let out an irritated exhale. “Fine. You two go back to the ball and claim your wives. Tell Dorothea that Anya is safe, but needs to recover at the Tricorn.”
He turned to address the ancient priest, who’d draped a handkerchief over Petrov’s lifeless face. “Father, I’ll leave you to deal with your countryman. You may take him back to Russia or arrange for a burial here, at your discretion. Count Petrov is no longer of interest to His Majesty’s government.”
He had no idea how much the old man understood, but at that moment, he didn’t particularly care. He needed to get Anya back to the Tricorn as quickly as possible. He strode out of the cabin and down the gangplank, taking care not to jostle her any more than necessary. Her shallow breathing and flushed cheeks worried him more than he cared to admit, and his stomach churned in panic. She was so small. What if she’d taken a fatal dose?