Читать книгу Awakened By The Prince’s Passion - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Prince Pisarev called it an intimate supper. Dasha called it a council of war. She surveyed the assembled guests from her vantage point at the drawing-room fireplace with a wary eye. The day had been spent in cautious meetings such as this; first with the Prince in the garden, then with the doctor and now this gathering. It consisted of one Russian diplomat in Alexei Grigoriev, the consul from St Petersburg; one Russian officer in General Vasiliev, also of St Petersburg; and three Kubanian princes. With the exception of Klara Grigorieva Baklanova, Dasha was the only woman present, further proof this was no ordinary supper party.

She sat at the foot of the table, a prince to her left, the darkly brooding Stepan Shevchenko. To her right sat another prince, Nikolay Baklanov, and his wife beyond him. Prince Pisarev sat at the head of the table with His Excellency Alexei Grigoriev. General Vasiliev and Captain Varvakis filled out the spaces between. Dinner was a tribute to Kubanian cuisine: a borscht soup with sour cream to begin, followed by beef and baby potatoes, all accompanied by wines from Ekaterinodar, one of the few areas in Russia where vineyards could be cultivated.

At the other end, Prince Pisarev raised his glass. ‘A toast to our lovely guest, Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova. To safe arrivals and happier days. Na zdorovie!’ The Prince toasted her as if she were an honoured guest on a state visit, instead of a fugitive gone to ground.

Around Dasha, the words became a polite chorus. She smiled at the guests, graciously accepting the toast as if she had a right to the fiction the Prince created, all the time wondering how many of them, like herself, questioned her ability to make good on the claim. How many of them were sizing up the potential benefits of believing in her versus risks? No one did anything for nothing and supporting a princess with no memory of her own identity was no small thing to ask. This was the worst part of not remembering, of not knowing. Who did she trust? Who could she turn to?

When the chorus died down, she raised her own glass. ‘To our host, Prince Pisarev, whose hospitality has been unending.’ The Prince gave a slight incline of his head, his eyes steady on her as he drank. Was he also calculating the situation? Of course he was. His questions today indicated as much and he’d be a fool if he wasn’t—something she was certain he was not. Helping her was not without danger, should she choose to return to Kuban and embrace her heritage. It would be far easier for him if she chose anonymity. Far easier for her, too.

She wondered if, despite his vow to support her decision regardless of her choice, he would try to influence the situation towards a certain outcome? Would she ever truly be sure of his neutrality? Or truly sure that any decision she made was entirely hers alone? It occurred to her that Prince Pisarev was the man at this table she needed to be able to trust the most and the one she should probably trust the least, simply because he wielded the most power. She was in his house, under his protection, under his direction. Everything that had happened today was because of him—from her bath, to her clothes, to the excellent doctor and the dinner tonight. All of it was because of him. Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide anything tonight. But she’d have to decide soon, judging from the tenor of the conversation.

‘Are you saying the military is split on the rebellion?’ General Vasiliev questioned Captain Varvakis with a sharp eye. ‘If so, it is no wonder the Loyalists didn’t stand a chance, no ruler does without a unified show of military force.’

Captain Varvakis nodded in agreement and explained. ‘The Tsar’s restrictive marriage and career policies affected noble families perhaps the most. The younger generation of nobles felt increasingly alienated by the Tsar. He cut his support out from under himself, losing the allegiance of young nobility who were officers in his army.’ Along the table heads nodded. She did not know these men, Prince Nikolay Baklanov and Prince Stepan Shevchenko, but perhaps they had fled Kuban for precisely the same reason those left behind had rebelled. Her gaze rested on Prince Pisarev. Why had he left?

The consul, Alexei Grigoriev, looked contemplatively at his wine glass. ‘That being understood, the people in power would not be eager to welcome back a member of the Tsar’s family. The last thing they’d want would be a return to the past.’ He gave her a small, apologetic nod. ‘I speak frankly, Your Highness, that is all. I do not mean to slander you.’

Dasha smiled her own understanding. ‘Of course, no insult taken, Your Excellency.’ He’d done her a favour with his reference to her title, a subtle assumption of her authority. If he accepted her legitimacy, perhaps the others would, too.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Your Excellency,’ Captain Varvakis broke in quickly. ‘Princess Dasha represents the middle ground. She is of the royal bloodline, a natural ascendant to the throne as far as the hierarchy is concerned. But she is also young, and she has resisted her father’s policies as assuredly as the other young nobles of the kingdom have. The Loyalists will like and accept her as a ruler based on her lineage. The Rebels will accept her politics.’

Dasha tensed. Were those her politics? She didn’t know, quite honestly. As much as she didn’t like Varvakis or anyone else speaking for her, there was much she couldn’t speak for herself on. Who was she to say what she did or didn’t believe? It was a dangerous position for a future leader to be in. She was a blind woman, entirely reliant on Varvakis as her guide. She did not like feeling so exposed.

Prince Pisarev’s eyes were on her again, a small smile twitching at his lips. Perhaps he guessed her quandary, but his question was for Varvakis. ‘What rebellion is this? How has the Princess resisted?’ Yes, how? It was what she was wondering, too. What had she done? She was thirsty for knowledge as much as she loathed the need for that knowledge. She should know what she’d done. Dasha fought back the frustration that welled whenever the emptiness threatened. She would not let herself feel helpless. She would face the emptiness and she would fill it.

Captain Varvakis met the question squarely. ‘A year ago there was a marriage arranged for her with an important Turkish ally that would help secure trade routes along the Dardanelles. The Princess refused, vehemently. The Tsar feared the refusal would spark trouble beyond the palace walls coming so close as it did on the heels of General Ustinov’s young wife’s suicide, so he dropped the matter, but not before key nobles learned of it. They will remember the Princess stands with them, that she would be unlikely to continue her father’s practices.’

‘You remember none of this, Princess?’ Prince Shevchenko fixed her with dark eyes.

‘None.’ She paused, gathering their attention. Honesty would be her best way forward and theirs. ‘I might not ever remember any of it.’ That was the reality she needed to prepare herself for. The doctor today had said as much. Memory loss was supposed to be short-term, but hers showed no sign of abating. Prince Shevchenko shot a knowing glance around the table with a dark eye brow arched at the improbability of their quest. They were supposed to return a princess with no memories to Kuban and place her in power. They were gathered together tonight to discuss the risk analysis behind such an action. One by one, each of the men assembled looked away, gathering his own thoughts about the revelation and what it meant. All except Prince Pisarev. He smiled, unconcerned.

‘It’s far too early to decide either way and far too much is unknown. Anything could happen. The Princess may not want to go back. Her memories may yet return. The doctor suggested some memory aids. We are not without tools and resources.’ There was comfort in the Prince’s words, reminding her of his words earlier, that she was not alone no matter what she decided.

Men shifted uneasily in their chairs, restless with her presence. It was her cue to leave. They needed to talk amongst themselves. Dasha rose. ‘Princess Baklanova, if you would care to join me in the drawing room, we can let these gentlemen get on with their port.’ And their gossip. She was well aware she’d be the main topic of conversation with only Varvakis and Prince Pisarev to defend her. The others were likely to be merciless.

* * *

Sleep was mercilessly elusive. Long after the guests were gone, murmuring polite goodbyes while scepticism lurked in their eyes, Dasha was wide awake. At least awake, she wouldn’t dream. That was something to be thankful for. Lamp in hand, she made her way to the library. She didn’t dare indulge in any more brandy-laced milk. Maybe a book would help take her mind off the events of the day, which had not gone as well as hoped.

Perhaps she’d been overly optimistic. She’d hoped Prince Pisarev would recognise her. She’d hoped the doctor would give her a magical cure. Those things had not happened.

Dasha ran her hand over the spines of books. They were new, their spines stiff. Everything in this home was new. She’d noticed that today: the carpets, their bright hues not yet dulled from generations of boots; the curtains with their rich colours. It was all tastefully understated, but it was still new. Everything lacked the truly aristocratic patina of age and successions.

She selected a book of Russian fairy tales and took it to the sofa by the fire. The pages had been cut, but the book still gave a crackle of newness when she opened it. She ran a finger down the table of contents: Ivan and the Firebird, Father Winter, Ruslan and Ludmila... Her finger stopped on that one. Ruslan the Knight. She’d forgotten. It had been a long time since she’d read fairy tales. Pushkin had published a poem by that name as well a couple of years ago. She turned to the page, letting the story come back to her in pieces—the beautiful Ludmila stolen from home on her wedding day, the gallant Ruslan riding to her rescue and facing down a series of foes while Ludmila lay unconscious and unknowing. Dasha looked into the fire. She might enjoy the tale more tonight if the parallels weren’t so obvious, right down to the very name of her own gallant knight.

‘Ah, so you’ve discovered the library. Have you found anything good to read? I haven’t had time to explore the offerings yet.’

Dasha jumped, casting about for a weapon. Her eyes lit on the poker. Could she reach it? How could she have been so careless to sit down defenceless?

‘I don’t think you’d reach the poker in time.’ Prince Pisarev stepped forward, dressed only in a shirt and waistcoat. His jacket and cravat had been discarded. Without the jacket, his lean body was on full display, elegant and urbane even in moderate dishabille. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He took the chair on her left, a glass in his hand. She felt silly and self-conscious. Who had she thought it would be? Who could it be but Prince Pisarev or Captain Varvakis?

‘Old habits, I suppose.’ Maybe. Who knew if she made a practice of beating people over the head with pokers, or even if she had need for such a skill? She tugged at the light blanket she’d thrown around her shoulders before coming down, reminded suddenly of how underdressed she was for meeting a man at midnight, even if that hadn’t been her intention when she’d left her room.

‘Nothing wrong with old habits.’ Ruslan smiled and took a swallow. ‘Can’t sleep? Would you like something?’

‘No.’ Dasha played with the folds of her nightrail, pleating them between her fingers.

‘I confess I’m glad you’re still awake. I’d like to discuss a few things, if you’re up to it.’

She nodded her permission. Did this man never sleep? It was after midnight, approaching twenty-four hours since her ignominious arrival on his doorstep, and he was still working.

‘Thank you. The doctor suggested it may help prompt some memories if you surrounded yourself with reminders of your old life, if you lived and acted as if you knew yourself to be a princess. To that end, I’ve engaged a few individuals who can help with that: a dancing master, a dressmaker, a French tutor since everyone at the Kubanian court speaks French, an etiquette coach. At the very least, the skills will help you feel more at home among the English aristocracy.’

‘And at the best?’ Dasha asked sharply, not entirely liking where this proposal was headed and what it might signify.

‘It may prompt your memories. You might discover you are already fluent in French, or that you can already dance. It might be all you need to break through your mental block.’

‘Or perhaps it is all you need to convince people I am truly capable.’ Did he think she was naïve enough to not see what this was? She was to be trained. If she could not remember being the Princess, she could be transformed into one effectively enough to convince anyone who needed convincing. It made the option of becoming an anonymous émigrée moot. London society would not let a Kubanian princess with a right to the throne fade into anonymity. Anonymity required a new name, a new history.

Dasha rose and paced before the fire, her mind racing. ‘So it’s already been decided, has it? I left the room and your war counsel decided I am to go back, as if I am a pawn without any say in the matter.’ She speared him with a hard stare. ‘I hoped for more from you, Prince Pisarev. Your promise to me was merely hours old before you broke it.’

* * *

Broke his word? How dare she imply such a thing, especially to a man who had nothing but his word? The Princess went too far when she impugned his honour after all he’d done for her today, without question, and there were plenty of far less pleasant questions he could have asked. Ruslan narrowed his eyes, letting his gaze suggest his displeasure, his tone cool. ‘Nothing has been decided. I meant every word. I will not force you to go back. But should you decide to return, you will need certain skills, certain pieces of knowledge. What you can’t remember can be taught, but it will take time and we don’t know how much of that we have. We have to start now. We have to be prepared.’

‘We?’ Dasha snapped. ‘The last time I checked, there was just me. Just one Princess.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. The moment you entered my house you made this my concern. I thought I had made that clear.’ If anyone needed safeguarding, it was she. Dasha was brave, but she was entirely vulnerable even among those who meant to help her. He’d seen just how vulnerable at dinner, listening to Varvakis discuss her political views because she couldn’t, and later, listening to the men take her apart in her absence, bandying about words like ‘puppet princess’—a clear indication that she would be the front for those who would run the government on her behalf. Such an assumption would have led to a duel had she been a man. Despite the practical objectivity required of such analysis, something fierce and protective had risen in him in the dining room on her behalf as General Vasiliev had bluntly outlined the risks of helping her and the potential rewards of controlling the provincial kingdom in exchange for the effort. Ruslan would have gladly taken his dinner knife and gutted the man if it would have served any purpose, but despite his anger he had an aversion to killing people for telling the truth.

‘If we’re in it “together”, as you suggest, you have the unenviable job of being my advisor of sorts.’ Her tone suggested she was not satisfied with his answer. Her eyes sparked as she crossed her arms over her breasts. The fire caught her slim silhouette beneath her nightrail, illuminating long legs that disappeared up beneath the opaqueness of the blanket she wrapped around herself, but not before the sight of those legs reminded Ruslan she was naked beneath the cotton. Being her self-appointed advisor would be a far easier job if she was a tad less attractive and a tad more clothed.

Ruslan crossed his leg over a knee, trying to dispel the beginnings of arousal. Politics aside, Dasha was a beautiful woman and he was naught but a man. Circumstances being different, he might have acted on the burgeoning attraction, but politics and opportunity could not be put aside or compromised. She was a princess in exile with a decision to make that would decide the fate of a nation. That was complication enough.

Dasha hugged herself, some of the anger leaving her body—anger she had every right to claim, Ruslan reminded himself. She was no fool. She knew what had happened in the dining room after she’d left. ‘I don’t know who I am supposed to be. A princess? An exile? Someone else entirely?’ The desperation in her eyes drew him.

Against his better judgement, he set aside his glass and went to her at the fire, his hands firm at her forearms, his body close, his voice husky from the lateness of the hour. ‘Think of your situation as a blessing. Many people would envy you that choice. You have a chance to remake your life, to remake yourself. You can be whoever you want to be, no history, no backstory, no chains to your past. That can be a gift, Dasha. I will help you find a new name, a new life if you want.’ Being this close to her was wreaking all kinds of sensual havoc on his body. He was doing this for encouragement’s sake, or so he told himself. But his body had other ideas—all of them bad.

Ruslan licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, his mind aware of the details of her. She smelled of sweet summer roses, she was warm and naked beneath the nightclothes. All the ingredients for a disaster were there: the late night, the long day, a beautiful woman in distress looking at him with emerald eyes that begged for resolution and relief, comfort and companionship. She must have sensed it, too. He felt her body move into his. It was the smallest of movements, but it was enough to warn him, her lips parted in slight but unmistakable invitation.

His reflexes were faster. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. ‘You’ve had a trying day, Your Highness.’ He was giving her absolution, an excuse to fall back on when she awoke in the morning and realised what she’d done, what she’d asked for. Given the circumstances, it was entirely understandable. She was confused and alone. She would seek comfort where she could. He had no such convenient excuses. He had to resist the temptation on behalf of them both. Ruslan stepped away from her. ‘Best get some sleep, Princess, lessons start tomorrow.’