Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

Huddled near the fire as night fell and a decided chill entered the air, Leonida desperately attempted to ignore her grimy surroundings and the pervasive scent of fried onions.

Soon she would be home, she bolstered her flagging spirits. Once she had reached St. Petersburg and the protection of her family no one would dare lay a hand upon her. Not even the arrogant Duke of Huntley.

Oddly the knowledge did not offer the comfort she hoped for. In fact, there was something perilously close to regret tugging at her heart.

Mon Dieu. Had she gone completely mad?

With an angry click of her tongue she forced herself to imagine the luxurious comfort of her mother’s home and the blissful peace of being able to spend an entire day without fear of being exposed as a fraud.

She would be safe and happy and, in time, any thought of Stefan would fade to nothing.

Luckily, her thoughts were interrupted by a maid entering the parlor. She preferred not to dwell on the fear that Stefan would never be forgotten. That he might haunt her dreams for years to come.

“Your dinner, Madam,” the servant murmured, setting the tray on the table.

“Thank you.” Leonida moved to take a seat, grimacing at the bowl of greasy fish stew and loaf of crusty bread that looked to be at least a week old. She had hardly anticipated such an establishment to possess a talented chef, but this was even worse than she expected. “Have you seen my maid?”

The middle-aged female, who was surprisingly tidy, with a pair of shrewd brown eyes, considered a moment.

“Last I seen, she was headed toward the stables.”

Leonida smiled wistfully. Of course, Sophy would desire some time alone with Pyotr. There could be no mistaking the growing fondness between her two servants.

“Very well. That will be all,” she said, dismissing the maid, and resigned herself to eating her dubious meal alone.

Leonida was busy choking down her meal when the sound of raised voices outside the door had her rising to her feet and hastily tugging on her veiled bonnet.

It had been early enough when she had arrived that the taproom had been empty of customers, but it sounded as if it had rapidly filled with the sort of drunken louts who were not happy unless they were starting a fight.

She momentarily debated the wisdom of returning to her upstairs chambers. At least there she could bar the door against the other guests. Unfortunately, she would have to pass directly by the taproom to reach the stairs, and it did not seem particularly desirable to draw attention.

In the end, the decision was taken out of her hands as the door to the parlor was pushed open and a tall, handsome gentleman entered the room.

Her heart slammed against her chest as recognition hit.

Sir Charles Richards.

Horror held her captive as the unwelcome intruder carefully closed the door and tossed aside his hat and gloves. Then, straightening the lace that peeked from beneath the sleeves of his tightly molded black jacket, he at last strolled across the floor to stand directly before her.

“There will be no need to hide your beautiful face, Miss Karkoff.” A cruel smile curved his lips as he yanked off her bonnet and tossed it on the floor. “There should be no secrets between friends.”

Cold dread twisted her stomach. She had already suspected that this man was involved with her enemies. Now there could be no doubt.

Resisting the cowardly urge to faint, Leonida instead conjured a stiff expression.

“Sir Charles, whatever are you doing here?”

“Following you, of course,” he said blandly, his eyes hard. “You have led me a merry dance, but at last we come to the conclusion of our waltz.”

“Pray, why would you wish to follow me?”

“Why?” He reached into the pocket of his jacket to remove a dagger, angling it until the firelight danced off the long, lethal blade. “Because you have something that belongs to me.”

Any hope of pretense was forgotten as Leonida hastily backed from the intruder.

“Stay away from me or I will scream,” she rasped.

“Now that would be a pity.” His fingers stroked the dagger, as if he took a disturbing pleasure in the feel of the scrolled silver handle. “I have regrettably had the staff of this humble inn gathered into the kitchens with the order to shoot anyone foolish enough to interrupt our charming reunion.”