Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

“We would not speak at all if I were close,” she muttered.

“Perhaps you have a point.” He paused as she moved to the small armoire. “What are you doing?”

“I might as well pack as we speak. You did say that I was to be taken back to England.”

“Now I truly am suspicious,” he mocked, his words faintly slurred. “Good God, leave those hideous gowns behind. You will terrify the natives if they see you strolling about swathed in black crepe.”

“You are far too fond of tossing about orders, your Grace.”

“I am…” His words faded, as if he were struggling to recall what he was about to say. “Fond of many things, Miss Karkoff,” he at last managed to mutter.

Finished with her packing, Leonida slowly turned to discover that her companion’s eyes had slid shut.

Walking to the edge of the bed, Leonida gazed worriedly at his pale face.

“Stefan?” she whispered.

His eyes remained shut, but a tiny sm

ile briefly touched his lips.

“I thought you were an angel the first time I caught a glimpse of you,” he said huskily, his voice thick.

“No.” Her heart twisted with painful shame. “I am no angel.”

“I wish…”

“What?”

His head twisted restlessly on the pillow. “I am so sleepy.”

“Then rest, Stefan,” she murmured, brushing her lips over his brow.

“You…” He struggled to speak. “Bloody hell, you gave me something.”

“As I said, I am no angel,” she whispered sadly.

Waiting until he had fully lost his battle against the encroaching weariness, Leonida placed a last, longing kiss on his lips. Then, tossing aside the last of her scruples, she tugged his leather purse from his jacket. Grasping her hastily packed bag, she slapped a black veiled hat on her head and hurried from the room.

Stefan’s servants would soon come searching for their missing Duke, she reassured her nagging conscience as she hurried down the paneled corridor. They would properly see to his wound, and perhaps, if they had the least amount of sense, they would haul him back to Meadowland while he was still unconscious.

Indifferent to the startled glance from a maid who was carrying an armful of clean bedding, Leonida darted past her to climb the narrow staircase that led to the servants’ rooms. She had no notion where Pyotr might be lodged, but she was desperate enough to knock on every door until she found him.

Thankfully for the servants attempting to have a few moments’ peace from their demanding employers, Leonida’s run of ill luck came to a brief halt as Sophy stepped out of a room and headed toward the staircase.

Rushing forward, Sophy took in Leonida’s rumpled appearance and the heavy bag held in her hand.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING up here?” the maid demanded, her expression troubled. “This is no place—”

“Sophy, thank heavens,” Leonida interrupted. “Gather Pyotr and then pack only what you need. I will meet you behind the kitchens.”

“What has happened?”

“The Duke of Huntley has happened.”

Sophy lifted a hand to her mouth. “He is here?”