Page 83 of The Princess and the Rogue

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.Ifshe woke up—

His brooding thoughts were interrupted by Mickey, carrying a tray, and a bustling Lagrasse, who had fasteneda 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 her 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.

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