Page 76 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Thank you.” Seb sent him a dry nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the prisoner. “Now, would you prefer the head or the heart?” He lifted the pistol, pulled back the hammer, and levelled it smoothly. His arm didn’t waver an inch.

“His ship!” the Russian shouted desperately.

Seb tilted his head. “I’m listening.”

“Petrov wanted me to take her back to his ship,” the Russian continued quickly. “TheSuvarov. It’s moored at Blackwall docks. That’s all I know.”

Seb lowered the pistol. The Russian slid down the wall in relief, and Seb took a savage satisfaction in the wet stain that spread across the front of the man’s breeches as he pissed himself. He glanced at his friends. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, they were heading east along Piccadilly as quickly as the evening traffic would allow. Seb cursed every slow-moving carriage and late-night reveler who crossed his path.

A pounding need to hurt, to punish Petrov, coursed through him, along with a terrible spike of fear. His lack of control over this situation made him want to scream. He had to get to Anya. To protect her. God, she’d already braved and suffered so much in her life.

“Why a ship?” Alex asked as they slowed for a barrel-filled brewer’s wagon. “Do you think he’s planning to take her back to Russia?”

Seb growled at the mere thought. “Maybe. He wants to marry her. Not just for her money, but to guarantee her silence.”

“That’s it, then,” Ben said. “Since they’re not Church of England, he can’t wed her here. I bet he needs a Russian Orthodox priest to make it legal.”

“Maybe he’s found one in London,” Alex suggested. “Maybe he has one on board? That’s what I’d do if I—”

Seb snapped, “Stop talking and ride.”

The thought of Anya married to Petrov made him want to break things. Bones, mainly. She belonged with him, damn it. He’d rather die than see her with another man, let alone a blackmailing bastard like that. If anyone was going to marry her, it would bloody well behim.

A sense of calm acceptance slid over him as he registered the truth of that thought.

He wanted to marry her.

He wanted her in whatever guise she chose to adopt, whether it be princess, dowager’s companion, or courtesan.

He would rescue her from Petrov, prove he was worthy of her, and ask for her hand again.

True, she’d refused him once, but his first proposal hadn’t been the best, had it? In fact, now that he thought back on it, he hadn’t actually proposed. He’d just told her they were expected to marry. No woman wanted to hear that. Especially not one as stubborn and determined to forge her own destiny as Anya. No wonder she’d turned him down.

He’d do a better job next time. He’d tell her all the reasons hewantedto marry her. Like the fact that he loved the way she challenged him. That he loved her strength and her arrogance, her humor and her wit. Not to mention that he’d never met anyone he desired more. One night with her had merely whetted his appetite. He wanted her in every way he could think of, and a hundred more besides.

“If that bastard hurts one hair on her head, he’s a dead man,” Seb growled to nobody in particular.

He kicked his heels to Eclipse’s sides and remembered the first time he’d ridden into battle for her. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he’d met his very own Waterloo on Hounslow Heath, in the shape of a lying, irresistible Russian blueblood.

Alex sat straighter in the saddle as they finally neared Blackwall docks. “Hoi. You remember that Russian who was killed? The other Orlov? The tavern where it happened is just over there. Ten to one Petrov had something to do with it.”

Fear stabbed Seb’s chest like shards of ice, and he breathed a plea to the frigid night air.

Hold on, Anya. I’m coming.

Chapter 35.

Anya was roused by a sharp slap on her cheek. She opened her eyes and peered groggily out of the coach window. They had come to a stop. She could see the blurry lights and the swinging sign of a tavern, hear the whores lounging in the shadows shouting obscene comments, the catcalls from the drunks who milled around. Her heart sank. This wasnota good area.

Vasili caught her arm and pulled her out of the carriage, and she stumbled on the step, still dazed.

The huge, hulking shape of a ship loomed above her, and she frowned up in confusion. She must be at the docks. She squinted to read the painted nameplate on the side of the vessel:Suvarov.

Trust Vasili to have commandeered a ship named after a famous Russian military hero, she thought bitterly. Even in his choice of vessel, he craved reflected glory. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Her cheek hurt.

The dark shapes of two men were visible up on the deck, one at each end of the ship, and a huge figure in thedistinctive fur-banded hat and long overcoat of a Cossack stood guard at the bottom of the gangplank. Anya immediately discounted him as a potential source of help. His expression was blank, with not a hint of interest in her plight.

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