Awakened By The Prince’s Passion. Bronwyn Scott
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in tow. That was something to be wary of. He wouldn’t be the first military man to have political aspirations. Ruslan sighed. He could see it plain. Good God, the Captain wanted more than sanctuary. Varvakis wanted to continue the revolution under his roof, wanted to make him an accomplice in whatever political plan the factions had hatched. A drink might come in handy, just now.
Ruslan rose, went to the sideboard holding his array of decanters and poured two glasses. He had questions in spades now. Ruslan passed the Captain a brandy in the hopes that Varvakis having a drink in hand made his questions feel more like a conversation and less like an interrogation. ‘Here’s to journeys completed.’
They’d barely raised their glasses when a scream shattered the night. Ruslan exchanged a look with the Captain and dashed into the hall as a second scream followed. Ruslan’s eyes went up. At the top of the stairs, a woman staggered, her arms flailing at invisible enemies. Whatever tortured her did so from somewhere unseen.
‘Your Highness!’ Captain Varvakis called out. The woman’s wild eyes slid towards the sound of her name. She looked like an escapee from Bedlam; her gaze was vacant, her ash-blonde hair loose and tangled at her shoulders as if it hadn’t been washed or combed for some time. She came closer, nearing the stairs unsteadily, arms still waving. Ruslan saw the danger immediately and raced forward, taking the steps two at a time. If she reached the steps, she would fall.
Ruslan set aside any sense of formality in the hopes of waking her in time. He bounded upwards, racing against the inevitable as she took a step, teetering when her foot achieved nothing but air, her foot searching for purchase, finding none and coming down, the move putting her body off balance. Ruslan closed the distance, wrapping her in his arms as they fell in an inelegant sprawl atop the landing, safely pushing her back from the stairs.
Ruslan was acutely aware of the body pressed to his might-as-well-be nakedness. His banyan and pyjama trousers offered little protection against the feminine onslaught of soft curves straight from a warm bed. Beneath him, sharp eyes flashed with a spark of awareness as sleep transformed to wakefulness. For a moment there was peace when he looked into those eyes. And then she screamed again.
* * *
Where was she? Panic rocketed through Dasha. Not that the question or the panic were new. She hadn’t known where she was for weeks. Now, there was a strange man on top of her. She screamed and fought him out of habit and an instinct to survive. She thrashed beneath him, forcing him to subdue her, which he did with alarmingly little effort. This man was lean and strong, and barely clothed in a dressing gown and silk sleeping trousers that left little of him to the imagination.
‘Your Highness, please, be still. You’re safe. We’re in London. We made it.’ Captain Varvakis’s voice ended her resistance, his words bringing back what few new memories she had. ‘You were dreaming again.’
Dasha stilled and let her mind work, processing what she knew to be true. She’d been sleepwalking. Again. She was in the middle of a hall, propelled out of bed by the nightmare. Despite the horrors of the dream, it was the one thing that was hers entirely, her one complete memory. It had existed before she’d awakened in a wagon racing out of Kuban, of that she was sure. It had existed before Captain Varvakis had told her who she was. In the dream there’d been fire and fighting and death. She had a sword. She was fighting. There was someone at her back, someone she was protecting, but whom? She didn’t know. She always awoke before she could turn and see. Perhaps there was no one. Perhaps it was merely an invention of the dream as the Captain suggested.
‘Your Highness.’ Varvakis was worried. Again. She’d been nothing but worry to him. ‘Are you all right? Let’s get you back to bed. You need to rest.’ But it was the man who held her who helped her to her feet and wrapped a steadying arm about her, lending her strength as he waited for her response. Too many other men would have followed the Captain’s orders.
‘Perhaps some warm milk, or something stronger?’ he offered. This man might’ve come straight from bed. His hair was dishevelled. But his eyes were sharp, too sharp for a man newly roused. He’d been awake a while.
‘Both. Warm milk with brandy would be nice.’ Through the long window in the hall, she could see the fingers of sunrise flirting with the hem of the night like an eager suitor. It would be morning soon. Bed seemed pointless but the milk and brandy would calm her. She wanted to be calm and clear-headed. She was in a new place, with new people. It was inevitable there would be questions and she wanted to do the answering for once.
The gentleman in the banyan ushered her down the stairs to a study already filled with light and warmth. He pulled a bell cord and smiled. Even in total ungroomed dishabille, it was easy to see he was a handsome man. Thick, unruly red-gold hair framed a lean face with keen blue eyes and cheeks that rounded when he smiled, adding depth and dimension. ‘We’ll have milk here momentarily, and an early breakfast, too. Until then, perhaps introductions are in order. I am Prince Ruslan Pisarev.’ If anyone could look regal given these circumstances, it was this man. Even in nightclothes, even in the middle of the night, even after tackling her and being attacked by her, he still managed an elegant leg.
‘Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova, or so I am told.’ The wryness in her tone caught his attention. His gaze slid towards Captain Varvakis with question and censure, proof that Varvakis hadn’t told him. He didn’t know about her particular condition.
‘Varvakis, what is that supposed to mean?’ the Prince asked.
But it was Dasha who answered. She might be confused, she might have spent the last weeks wondering where she was and who she was, but she was tired of having men speak for her in her presence. She met his gaze evenly and, she hoped, without shame.
‘What it means, Prince Pisarev, is that I have no memories of Kuban or who I am. I have only this good man’s word.’ What would Prince Pisarev make of that information? Dasha settled into one of the chairs near the fire, taking comfort in the warmth. She was so very cold. Cold and empty, as she had been for weeks. The fire could do something about the one, but not the other. It seemed nothing could. Not even the information Captain Varvakis had given her filled the void. The Prince was looking at her with his steady blue gaze and something akin to hope leapt in her. Did he know her? Had he known her family? Was there something he could tell her that would help her remember again?
She wouldn’t ask him here in front of the Captain. He might feel compelled to give a certain answer. She would wait and get him alone, where he could only tell her the truth.
The tray arrived and the next few minutes were spent pouring drinks and making little plates of toast and jam and hot sausages. The Prince’s gaze never left her for long. He was gathering his thoughts just as she was gathering her resources. Her body and mind were tense in anticipation of defending themselves. He would want to question her, to prod her about her memories, and then, when she failed to recall anything, he would condemn her. But the Prince did none of that.
‘I know a doctor, a specialist who can perhaps help you,’ the Prince said when the servants had gone. ‘After the Peninsular Wars, many of our soldiers suffered memory loss from the trauma of battle. I’ll arrange for a visit today, if you’d like. I will also arrange for a lady’s maid and some clothes until we can get you to a dressmaker. I already have my footmen preparing a hot bath for you in your chambers.’
* * *
Embarrassing tears stung Dasha’s eyes. How silly it was to cry now over a bath and clean clothes and brandy-laced milk when there was so much loss to mourn. Her home, her country, her mind, her family. She’d not cried when Varvakis had told her. She’d been numb with horror, not only at the nature of their deaths, but at her lack of memory. She couldn’t remember them, she could only mourn them as an outsider mourned the inherent wrongness of a tragedy. She’d not cried when the boat they’d journeyed in from Ekaterinodar foundered in the Black Sea. She’d been brave for weeks. She’d not broken down once, but Prince Pisarev had managed to reduce her to tears in a matter of sentences over the smallest of kindnesses. She willed the tears away with a fierce determination.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,