Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

Gregor gave an abrupt laugh. Golitsyn’s unwelcomed influence on Alexander Pavlovich was creating as many problems as Akartcheyeff. Herrick considered himself a religious man, but the zealous extremes that were beginning to creep through the palace were yet another concern.

“You do not wish to witness the settlements becoming monastic barracks?” Gregor asked, already knowing Herrick’s opinion.

“No more than I wish the men to spend their days standing before the altar and merely praying for their crops to grow.”

Gregor chuckled. “Careful, Gerhardt, you shall be accused of being a heretic.”

“Mystical nonsense. It has done as much damage as Metternich,” he muttered, the bitter words tumbling from his lips before he could halt them. Breathing in a cleansing breath, he shook his head. “Forgive me. I am tired or I would not allow my tongue to be so free.”

“You need never apologize to me or fear that your words will be repeated,” Gregor said, his voice low with sincerity. “Unlike many, you do know how to inspire loyalty.”

Herrick managed a weary smile. “A loyalty I depend upon, my friend. And the reason I requested you join me on this delicate mission.”

Gregor cast a glance toward the thickening trees. “Ah yes, our mission. Do we have a plan if Miss Karkoff is at the cottage?”

“We kill Sir Charles and return her to her mother.”

“You believe it will be so simple?”

“Thus far nothing has been simple, but I cling to futile hope,” Herrick drawled, reaching into his pocket to pull out his loaded pistol. “Take care, the cottage should be near.”

“Nearer than you imagine, Herrick Gerhardt,” a voice drawled from the edge of the trees.

Herrick brought his horse to a calm halt while his companion cursed and fumbled for his pistol. Reaching out, Herrick laid a restraining hand on the young soldier’s arm. He recognized that voice.

“No, Gregor,” he commanded, turning his head to watch the burly servant step from the shadows. “Boris. I am not certain if I am more shocked at the realization that you have not yet been shot by a prudish Englishman or that you have appeared

in this precise location. May I assume that Lord Summerville is near?”

“Lord Summerville remains in England. I traveled to Russia with the Duke of Huntley.”

Herrick didn’t bother to hide his shock. It had been several years since Huntley had journeyed so far from England. Which begged the question of why he would choose to do so now.

“And what would bring the Duke here?” he demanded.

“No doubt it was the same reason that brought you here.”

Herrick’s tension coiled as he realized what the man was implying.

“Is Miss Karkoff…”

“In the cottage with her maid, Sophy,” Boris was swift to assure him.

Painful relief surged through Herrick as he tossed his reins toward Gregor and slipped from the saddle. He was not too late. Thank God.

“And Sir Charles?”

Boris grimaced, his hands planted on his hips. “The last we saw of him, he was in a carriage headed toward St. Petersburg with his servant.”

Herrick crossed toward the edge of the road, noticing a narrow trail leading through the trees. No doubt the cottage lay beyond.

“You allowed him to escape?” he barked.

Boris smiled. As Edmond’s personal servant he had rarely displayed more than a grudging deference toward anyone beyond Summmerville.

“Not entirely unscathed. Miss Karkoff managed to lodge a knife in his gut. There is a decent chance that he is currently suffering a painful death.”

Herrick clenched his hand on the pistol, infuriated by the thought of the sweet child being forced to protect herself.