Page 40 of The Storybook Hero
His eyes narrowed. “Well, if it bothers you so much, put the children in together and share my room instead. After all, you are no stranger to my habits. I daresay you might even unbend enough to admit that you rather enjoyed your brief taste.”
“I see it was a mistake to get your blood heated,” she said coldly. “Apparently in such a state, you become so desperate you will grab at anything in a skirt, even a middle-aged spinster.”
His brows drew together.
“Now kindly remove your hand from my elbow and try not to make an unseemly spectacle in front of innocent eyes.”
His arm fell away and he took up the bottle. “Come along, Nicholas, let us find our beds. Good night, Miss Hadley and Miss Renfrew.” After a moment he added, “Sweet dreams.”
Hardly, thought Octavia sourly.
Gregori Bechusky,head steward to Vladimir Illyich Rabatov, regarded the deserted cottage with a snarl of frustration and stalked back to the copse of trees. The young count’s uncle hadentrusted him with tracking down the boy, and given the fat purse that was promised for completion of the job, his mood took an evil swing on finding his quarry had somehow slipped through his fingers. Mounting his horse, he threaded his way through the needled boughs to rejoin the three other men hidden in the forest.
“They’ve left. Let us split up and make inquiries.” He tossed several gold Imperials to each of his cohorts. “Someone must have seen or heard something that will be of use to us. And be quick about it. We’ll meet back at the tavern in several hours.”
The others spurred off, while the steward considered his next move. It had been a fortuitous break, to overhear an idle comment about the young count’s nurse having recently retired to her old village. His instincts had told him the boy would be here, so the ensuing disappointment at finding the place empty was only the more galling. But he hadn’t been wrong. A careful inspection of the old woman’s dwelling had revealed traces of the boy’s presence, so a starting point had now been established. A trail, however well disguised, would lead from it. And he didn’t doubt for an instant that he would be able to uncover it.
His confidence was soon proved justified when he arrived at the tavern and heard the nugget of information one of his men pried out of the old woman’s nephew. A sled had been purchased only two days ago, along with two shambling nags. Bechusky gave a grim smile as he drained his flagon of kvass. His task was going to be that much easier with the young count on the run rather than holed up at Polyananovosk.
As his fingers drummed on the rough pine table, he considered where his quarry might be headed. The advance of the French army made Moscow, or points west, an unlikely choice. Routes south, too, were fraught with danger. East or north seemed more likely. It shouldn’t be difficult to pick up the trail.
Only nagging question remained unanswered. He had determined that the old nurse had left with Riasanov, heading back in the direction of the Scherbatov estate. So who was with the boy? The description of the tall, broad-shouldered driver of the young count’s vehicle matched up with none of the household servants his spies had reported were still loyal to the boy’s family.
After a few more minutes of contemplation, Bechusky slid his chair back and slapped a coin onto the table, signaling to the others it was time to be on their way. As he checked the pistol tucked inside the folds of his coat, he decided it was not worth worrying about the stranger. After all, it hardly mattered who the fellow was—he was not going to be alive much longer.
Alex wokewith an aching head and a wooly mouth, an all too familiar condition that left him longing for Squid’s sympathetic ministrations, and the soothing draughts the resourceful valet could always be counted on to deliver to his bedside. There was, however, no magic elixir waiting to wash away the sour taste of the previous night. He winced as he shifted under the ragged blanket, not only from the stab of pain at his temples but on recalling his behavior. It had been bad.
No, it had been worse than bad.
Damnation!How was it that a prim, sharp-tongued governess had him in such a pelter? Her unexpected actions had so unnerved him that he had barely been able to touch his dinner. He was well aware of her intellect, her pluck, and even her prickly pride. It was her quiet kindness and compassion that had thrown him into such a state of confusion.
She had made it quite clear that she didn’t even like him, and yet, she had noticed his stumbling steps, and it had mattered to her that he had been cold and tired. Just as during that first night aboard the ship, she had somehow sensed his desperate need not to be abandoned—and she hadn’t walked away, though it was what he richly deserved.
Alex couldn’t remember the last person who had ever bothered to see him as anything other than a jaded libertine.
He swallowed hard. There had been compassion in her voice, gentleness in her fingers as they removed his boots. And when her ungloved hand had grazed his cheek while unwinding his muffler scarf, its touch had sparked embers inside him that he had thought were long since burned out.
In truth, the heat frightened him more than he cared to admit. He had grown so used to the cold, the thought of rekindling any flame was too threatening. Fire crackled, danced, licked and roared. It was something one couldn’t control. Having been so badly singed so long ago, he had vowed never to let it happen again.
Over the past ten years, he had fallen into bed with any number of willing ladies, always careful to let them touch nothing of him but the lithe planes of his flesh. Why was it that he suddenly appeared in danger of letting the prim, outspoken Miss Hadley get beneath his skin?
A low groan caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure he wanted to face the answer and so he had done his best to push her away. To keep his own fears at bay, he had deliberately sought for her to think the worst of him.
Well, he had certainly succeeded in doing that.In spades.
He rolled onto his side, causing the empty vodka bottle to fall to the floor.
“Alex?” ventured a small voice. “Are you … awake?”
A wave of guilt washed over him. Ye gods, he had nearly forgotten about Nicholas!
“Yes, lad.” He propped himself up on one elbow and ran a hand through his tangled hair. It was still quite dark outside, but by the faint stirrings below in the taproom, he figured it must be morning.
“Are you going to want to stay in bed all day?” asked Nicholas, the light from the single candle illuminating his pinched face.
“Why would you think that?”
There was a long pause. “Mr. Bolotnikov, my old tutor, kept spirits hidden in his desk. Whenever he claimed he was too ill to rise for my lessons, I could be sure of finding an empty bottle stashed somewhere in the schoolroom. It started to happen often enough that Mama found him out. She was very angry and sent him off.” His gaze fell to the floor. “She said it was a … a bad habit.”
