by Kate Bateman
Realizing he’d have to surrender his precious burden in order to mount Eclipse, he gently transferred her into her brother’s arms and vaulted into the saddle, then beckoned for Denisov to pass her back up to him. He settled her across his lap, her head tucked in the crook of his arm, and tightened his hold protectively.
Ben, Alex, and the friend all descended the gangplank.
“Perhaps you should transport the princess back to the Tricorn in the carriage?” Alex suggested, pointing to the nondescript hack still waiting outside the dockside tavern. “That way, Prince Denisov can ride with you.” His eyes sparkled with devilry; he’d correctly guessed Seb’s unwillingness to share Anya, even with her own brother.
Seb scowled down at him. “It’ll take too long. She needs to be in bed. The prince can take your horse.”
Alex lifted his brows. “And what about me?”
“You take the carriage.” Seb tipped his chin toward Anya’s friend. “Miss Ivanova needs to be escorted back to Grosvenor Square. We left her fiancé at the ball.”
Alex sighed in reluctant assent, and Benedict nodded. “I’ll ride behind you, Alex.”
Alex surrendered his horse, a handsome bay named Cadiz, to the prince, who mounted with all the ease of a man accustomed to the saddle. Seb’s stomach clenched as he recalled Anya, in her stable boy’s clothes, mounting in just such an effortless way. He waited with barely concealed impatience as Denisov tied a handkerchief around his forearm to staunch the flow of blood from his bullet wound.
“Come on,” Seb said. “Let’s go.”
The ride back to the Tricorn seemed endless. Seb spurred Eclipse as fast as he dared through the darkened streets, willing Anya to wake, but she remained distressingly still in his arms. He swallowed a rare feeling of helplessness.
He found himself remembering the first time she’d shared a horse with him, back on Hounslow Heath. He’d tensed in exquisite agony when her small hands had grasped his waist, dangerously close to the betraying bulge in his breeches. She’d been so prickly then, so full of life.
He glanced down at her now. The contrast was worrying. He pressed his lips to her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. It made his stomach twist. He let out a shaky breath and grasped the reins tightly, holding her steady in the crook of his arm. If only she were some fairy princess, like in her book of Russian tales, to be woken from her slumber with a kiss.
As soon as they reached the Tricorn, he shouted for Mickey.
“She drank Lagrasse’s sleeping draught,” he explained, striding down the hall. “Go and see if he has something to help. Quickly. I don’t know how much she’s taken.”
Mickey gave an unhappy grunt and lumbered off.
Seb mounted the stairs and kicked open the door his own rooms with his foot. Denisov was close behind him, but Seb didn’t give a damn about the propriety of it. He wanted her in his bed. He laid Anya down and started to unlace the ribbons that secured her dress, and sent Denisov a challenging glare. “Her corset will restrict her breathing. It needs to be loosened.”
Denisov nodded in agreement, and Seb uttered a prayer of thanks that the man was going to be sensible. The last thing he needed was some sputtering older brother getting all starchy about her reputation when she was in grave danger of succumbing to poison.
He wanted nothing more than to rip the damn dress off, get into bed next to her, and hold her in his arms until she woke, but he forced himself to remove the garment gently without damaging it. He removed her corset, leaving her covered by a modest cotton chemise, then tugged the sheets up to her chin and pulled a chair close to the bedside. He placed two fingers on the side of her neck and felt for her pulse. It was racing. Denisov perched on the other side of the bed and the two of them stared down at her face.
“What should we do? Try to wake her? Make her sick?” Denisov asked anxiously. Lines of strain bracketed his mouth, and Seb felt a sudden stab of kinship with the man. The thought of losing Anya was equally unbearable for both of them.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the effects of it on a woman,” he said. “And she may have taken too large a dose.” He frowned. “Her heart rate’s very rapid.”
He stroked her hair back from her forehead. She felt hot to the touch. Her cheeks were pink and her breathing unnaturally fast.
Seb ground his teeth. He hated not knowing what to do. He’d seen hundreds of battlefield injuries; give him a dislocated shoulder, a gunshot wound, or a broken limb, and he’d know precisely the treatment to give. But he was infuriatingly inexperienced when it came to potential poisoning.
What the hell had she been thinking? When she woke up, he was going to strangle her for taking such a foolish risk. If she woke up—
His brooding thoughts were interrupted by Mickey, carrying a tray, and a bustling Lagrasse, who had fastened a voluminous red banyan robe over his portly form. A jaunty nightcap was perched on his head, and Seb realized with a start that he’d never actually seen the chef without a hat of some sort.
“She drink my sleeping potion, eh?” Lagrasse said briskly. He inspected Anya, much as Seb had done, measuring her pulse and taking a peek at her eyes beneath her lids.
“What can we do?” Seb demanded.
“I have a remedy,” Lagrasse said. “She must drink zis.” He gestured to a tiny bottle on Mickey’s tray. “It is made from the calabar bean.” He poured two drops of the yellow-brown liquid into a glass of water on the tray and swirled it around to mix. “Try to make ’er drink.”
Seb slid his arm beneath Anya’s shoulders and eased her slightly off the pillows. Her head lolled, and he had to support it with his shoulder and jaw. Lagrasse handed him the glass. Her eyelids fluttered open when Seb held it to her lips, but there was no recognition in her faraway gaze when she looked at him.
“Drink,” Seb murmured. “Anya, you have to drink.”
He tilted the glass, but she turned her head and weakly tried to push him away.
“Please.” His voice was coaxing, rough with emotion. It betrayed the true depths of his feelings to every man in the room, but he was past caring. What did his pride matter if she died? He tried again. “Anya, it’s Wolff. Seb. Drink for me.”
He wasn’t sure she could even hear him, but he managed to get her to swallow a small amount of the liquid, and laid her back down with a sigh of relief. He glanced up at Lagrasse. “Now what?”
Lagrasse gave a Gallic grunt and indicated the other two glasses on the tray, both of which were filled with amber liquid.
“Ze brandy is for you,” he added grimly. “Zis will be a long night, monsieurs.”
He crossed to the washstand, claimed the porcelain basin, and handed it to Seb. “There is a chance she may be sick, you understand.” He glanced down at Anya’s face and concern pinched his features. “But maybe not. ’Ave faith. Ze lady is a fighter, but we must let her rest. All we can do now is wait.”
Chapter 38.
Anya drifted in a strange fog of sensation. Her thoughts were racing, scenes jumbled and fell over one another like some nauseating kaleidoscope. She kept seeing Vasili’s fist lashing out toward her, the astonished look on his face, the ring of blood on his jacket.
Her body felt weightless, as insubstantial as dandelion fluff, as if the slightest breeze might blow her away. Only the memory of Sebastien’s arms anchored her to the earth. She burrowed deeper into the delightful sensation, recalling the pleasure of being held, the warmth of his breath against the top of her head, the reassuring feel of his heartbeat beneath her shoulder.
An involuntary shudder ran through her. God, how easily that strong heart could have stopped if Vasili’s aim had been true. The terror she’d felt when first Seb, and then Dmitri, had been in his sights rushed over her anew. The two men she loved most in the world. She couldn’t imagine life without either of them.
Soft sounds began to intrude upon her consciousness. The click of a door. The crackle of a fire. The tick of a clock. She let them flow over he
r like water.
Her thoughts eventually became more definite. Petrov really was dead. Which meant the threat that had haunted her for so long had finally been eliminated. Anya knew she ought to feel some emotion other than relief at Vasili’s demise, but she couldn’t seem to dredge up much sympathy. Better men than him had died because of his treasonous deeds. Justice had been served, even if it had taken a slightly circuitous route.
A noise somewhere beyond her snagged her attention. The deep, comforting rumble of male voices trying to speak quietly. Anya listened, not quite ready to open her eyes.
“Why isn’t she waking up?”
That was Dmitri’s voice, so dear and unexpectedly sweet that her heart contracted with fierce joy.
“She will.”
That was Sebastien, his tone slightly less confident than usual. Anya suppressed a smile. He sounded worried about her. How wonderful.
“She might not wake for another few hours,” Seb said. “You might as well give me an account of your adventures, Denisov, to pass the time. What happened to you? The princess thought you were dead.”
Anya realized that she was in a bed. But where? Was she back at the dowager duchess’s house? Her own tiny Covent Garden apartment? She opened her eyes just a crack and recognized the deep burgundy hangings of Sebastien’s bedchamber. So, she was back at the Tricorn. A wash of inexplicable pleasure warmed her.
“Not dead,” Dmitri said from her left side. “Merely insensible. The last thing I remember from the battle itself was a giant of a Frenchman coming at me with a saber—and then nothing, until I woke up to find someone tugging on my legs. The battle was long over. It was the following day, and some cheeky sod was trying to steal the boots right off my feet! I sat up and must have given him a dreadful shock because he took one look at me, all covered in gore, and screamed as if he’d seen the devil himself. I shouted right back at him. He dropped my feet and took off running.”
Dmitri let out a wry chuckle at the macabre image, and the sound was echoed by a deep rumble from her right. Sebastien was sitting next to the bed; the familiar scent of him teased her nostrils.
“I must have lost consciousness again,” Dmitri continued, “because when I next awoke, I was in a cart, being dragged to a hospital in Antwerp. My skull had been cracked like the shell of an egg. My recovery took months, and I quickly discovered that there were huge gaps in my memory. I could recall some things with amazing clarity—like the time Anya got stuck in the tree in the orchard when she was eight and threw plums at me when I tried to help her down.”
Anya smiled inwardly at the memory, but didn’t open her eyes. She heard Seb exhale lightly.
“That sounds like the kind of thing she would do.”
Her heart gave a little somersault. Was she just imagining the dry fondness in his tone?
Dmitri snorted. “Unfortunately, I’d forgotten the few months prior to the battle. I didn’t recall being in Vienna, or General di Borgo, or the fact that Anya was waiting for me in Paris. I thought she was safely back in St. Petersburg. As soon as I was well enough to travel, I set off home. I was almost in Moscow when I finally remembered everything.
“I’d been looking into rumors that someone was passing information to the French, and I’d intercepted a letter that proved it was Petrov. I was going to give it to the Tsar at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, but the orders came to march to Waterloo—at three in the morning. I stashed the letter at the inn, intending to return for it later.”
Anya felt a rush of air beside her as Seb stood. His footfalls retreated across the room, she heard the tinkle of glass and the splash of liquid, and deduced he was pouring a drink. Her suspicions were confirmed when she caught a pleasant whiff of brandy and heard Dmitri’s low murmur of thanks.
“The duchess’s ball was held in a barn where the carriages were usually stored, since it was the only place large enough to accommodate so many guests. I hid the letter high up on one of the rafters, behind a bird’s nest. It was still there when I returned, months later. I went to Paris to find Anya, but everyone I spoke to said she’d disappeared.”
Anya almost made a murmur of distress.
“I knew she was far too stubborn to drown herself, as everyone seemed to think.”
Dmitri’s voice held a note of pride that warmed her heart.
“And when I heard Petrov had been found unconscious in her apartment, I knew there was more to the tale. I followed him here to London, hoping I’d find her. I’ve been spying on him for weeks, trying to get on board that ship of his in case she was being held prisoner, but when I finally managed it, all I found was that doddering old priest.”
Anya opened her eyes. She tried to speak, but it came out as more of a croak, and she realized her throat was parched. The two men hovering at her bedside came into focus and Dmitri’s face broke into a wide smile of relief.
“Anya, you’re awake! Thank God!” He smoothed his hand over her forehead. “You feel much cooler now. Have a drink.”
Anya returned his smile then risked a glance over at Sebastien, but his expression was harder to read. He looked grim. Dark stubble shadowed the angles of his jaw, and his eyes searched hers as if seeking confirmation of some question he hadn’t asked.
Anya pushed herself up on the pillows and accepted the glass of water he offered with a nod of thanks. She turned to Dmitri.
“Vasili thought you’d sent me that evidence. He wanted to ensure my silence by marrying me. I fled to London, but he had his men try to kidnap me.”
Dmitri let out an angry oath, but she put a soothing hand on his arm and shot a grateful glance over at Seb. “Lord Mowbray rescued me. And took it upon himself to protect me, despite his initial reservations.”
Anya gazed at him across the distance of the bed, and her heart pounded as she struggled to find the right words to convey the immense gratitude she felt.
The love.
“In fact,” she croaked, “he has saved my life on several occasions, and I owe him a debt I can never repay.”
Wolff’s face might have been made of granite, it was so stern. He shifted his weight as if uncomfortable with her praise, but his eyes never left hers.
“It was my duty,” he said gruffly. “Any one of my colleagues at Bow Street would have done the same.”
Anya’s spirits sank at his brusque dismissal of his heroism. As if she were simply another onerous case with which he’d been burdened.
“Thank you, my lord,” Dmitri said formally. “You cannot imagine the torment I have suffered, believing my beloved sister in the hands of that monster.”
Sebastien lifted his brows. “You think I cannot?”
Dmitri frowned at that enigmatic statement, and Anya’s heart clenched in sudden hope. What did he mean? That he was capable of imagining torment because of his wartime experiences? Or that he, too, had been plagued by fear because he cared for her?
The stubborn man refused to elaborate. He straightened and placed his empty brandy glass on the polished side table.
“You have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll leave you.”
He gave them a curt bow and disappeared through to the adjoining sitting room.
Anya let out a small sigh.
Dmitri’s eyes twinkled with speculative interest. “Little sister,” he said, switching to the Russian they were both more comfortable with. “You have been having adventures, haven’t you?” He lifted his brows and tilted his chin at the outer room, and Anya felt her cheeks heat.
“I don’t know what you mean.” She reached for the glass of water on the side table.
“Do you love him?”
Anya almost choked on her water. “Dmitri! What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one.” A serious look passed over his face. “My months in the hospital gave me ample time to think; it’s amazing how being so close to death helps clarify the mind.” His fingers closed over hers. “I came to realize that nothing really matters except people. Not things. Not
possessions. People. Life is worth living because of relationships. With family. With friends. With lovers.” His gaze caught hers. “What really matters is love.”
Anya felt tears prick her eyes at his fervent honesty. He was right. How simple it was.
A sudden urgency seized her. “Yes. I love him,” she said fiercely in Russian, knowing Sebastien wouldn’t understand, even if he was listening outside the door. “I don’t know when it happened, but it’s true.”
Dmitri’s smile lit up his whole face. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Not after seeing the way he’s been with you. He’s been like a man possessed.”
Anya frowned and glanced at the window. “I can’t have been asleep for that long. It’s still dark.”
Dmitri shook his head. “You’ve slept for a whole day and a night. And Lord Mowbray has never left your side. He’s been here watching over you, forcing you to drink water and milk for hours.”
Anya gaped at him.
“I think he loves you too,” Dmitri said with a smile. “He’s sent away every caller—and there have been many—Elizaveta, some dowager duchess, a woman named Charlotte—and tended you himself.”
“I would marry him,” Anya confessed. “But I don’t think he wants to marry me. He asked me once, but it was only to protect my reputation. I told him it wasn’t necessary.”
She frowned down at the sheets at her waist, pleating them absently with her fingers. “I think he thinks I should marry someone better than him. Someone with a loftier title or a fatter purse. But Dmitri, there is no one better than him. Not for me. He’s everything I ever wanted in a husband. He’s loyal and fierce, protective and kind. He makes me laugh,” she added with a sigh. “Even when he doesn’t mean to.”