Awakened By The Prince’s Passion. Bronwyn Scott
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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