Scandalous Deception (Russian Connection 1)

“For one thing, I happen to have become very fond of Miss Quinn,” he growled. “For another…”

“Yes?”

“Janet sent me a letter before I left London, threatening to have me gelded if her beloved mistress suffers so much as a bruise while she is in Russia.”

Edmond’s muffled laugh echoed through the thick silence that blanketed the countryside. Boris was one of the most feared and respected soldiers ever to put on the Cavalry’s gold-trimmed red tunics, but Edmond had seen how a mere glance from the spirited Janet could put the man on his knees.

“A potent inducement to rescue her.”

There was a brief pause before Boris cleared his throat. “That is not the most potent inducement.”

“Rather astonishing.” Edmond glanced toward his friend. “I am almost afraid to ask what the most potent one is.”

“You.”

“Boris, I may be a demanding employer but I can assure you that I will never threaten to geld you,” he protested.

Boris gave a slow shake of his head. “No, I could not bear what it would do to you if something were to happen to Miss Quinn.”

Conversation ceased at the stark words, Boris intent on keeping guard, Edmond struggling to marshal the emotions that exploded within him. It was not the fear that something might happen to Brianna. He quite simply would not even consider the possibility. But more the knowledge that his entire existence now depended utterly on the happiness of the slender, beautiful woman.

They pressed on in silence, ignoring the relentless snowfall and brutal cold. Edmond kept their pace steady, knowing that Viktor Kazakov’s carriage would be struggling to avoid becoming lodged in the snow. As much as it chafed him to plod along, they should catch up to Brianna within the hour, so long as he did not break his horse’s leg and land him in a ditch.

He kept the thought foremost in his mind as his hands went numb from the cold and his eyes watered from the stinging wind.

“There is a carriage ahead,” Boris at last called softly, pointing toward the distant shadow beside the road. “Is it stuck?”

“I do not know, but I intend to discover,” Edmond muttered, slipping from his horse and tossing the reins around a nearby tree. “Remain here.”

“Not bloody likely.” Boris vaulted from his own mount, his expression grim with determination. “In the event you did not notice, there are a half a dozen outriders waiting just down the road.”

“Fine. But for the moment, I merely want to ensure that the carriage is Viktor’s and that this is not a trap.”

Boris offered a sharp nod, and together they slipped along the edge of the road.

They had reached the back of the carriage when the door was pressed open and the vague outline of a slender woman wrapped in a blanket was pushed down the steps and onto the snow-covered path.

“Brianna,” Edmond breathed even as Boris grasped his arm in a ruthless grip.

“Wait,” Boris muttered next to Edmond’s ear as Viktor Kazakov stepped out behind her, his hand pressed against her lower back. “He has a pistol.”

Boris kept a tight hold on his arm as they watched Kazakov shove Brianna up a snowy path. Edmond frowned, his gaze briefly lifting toward the onion domes and kokochnik gables of the church. The wooden structure was like any other to be discovered across the Russian countryside. So why the devil had Viktor brought Brianna to this one?

“A church?” Boris muttered the same question echoing through Edmond’s mind.

“He must intend to hide her there so that he can return to St. Petersburg.”

“Then we need merely wait until he leaves. Unless…” Boris’s fingers dug into Edmond’s arm as he turned to meet Edmond’s glittering gaze.

LIKE ALL RUSSIAN ORTHODOX churches, this one was built in a cruciform with the altar placed so that it faced the east. Pretending to stumble over the threshold, Brianna gave herself a moment to cast a quick glance about the small nave.

There were the usual lecterns with icons placed in honor near the front of the church, as well as rows of beeswax candles—a handful that were currently lit—and incense to honor both the icons and the deceased. Unlike European churches, however, there were no pews. The faithful were expected to remain standing in respect, and only the feast-day icon in the center of the nave cluttered the floor.

There was nothing ready at hand to use as a weapon, or even a place to hide, if she could manage to break free of her captor.

As if sensing her hesitation was more than just a bout of awkwardness, Viktor prodded her with the barrel of his pistol.

“Unless you wish to be tossed over my shoulder, you will halt your dawdling,” he warned, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind them.