Awakened By The Prince’s Passion

Ruslan swirled his glass, watching a centrifuge form in the centre. ‘She remembers nothing at all?’ It was a question he’d not wanted to ask her. It seemed too intrusive. But he had to know if he was going to plot accordingly. It would be difficult to persuade others to follow a woman in her condition.

‘Nothing of merit,’ Varvakis admitted. ‘She remembers snatches of what happened. She dreams of the fire. It’s what gives her the nightmares, but she recalls nothing substantial.’

‘Except what you’ve told her?’ Ruslan asked pointedly. That was an interesting angle to consider. Her memories would come from Varvakis’s telling. He was the keeper of what she understood to be true. A Latin phrase ran through his head from John Locke: tabula rasa. A blank slate in the hands of the wrong man was a dangerous and powerful weapon. The Princess would believe what she was told. She had no alternative, no base to check the knowledge against. It was more important than ever to meet with Nikolay and determine if Varvakis could be trusted. Already Ruslan sensed the Captain had his own agenda.

‘As for protection,’ Ruslan went on, ‘I think we have two choices. First, we can assume Rebels have noticed her escape and have chosen to follow her to London for the purpose of assassinating her. That means we must keep her hidden. The other option is to assume we are beyond the Rebels’ reach. We take her out in society, such as it is in the autumn, and drum up support for her cause. We protect her by building a network abroad that will help her establish her claim to the throne when she returns.’ Such actions would make a Charles Stuart of her. Hopefully with better results.

‘Or we do both,’ Ruslan continued. Either option pointed towards Varvakis’s agenda: restore a Tukhachevsken to the throne, this time, one who favoured modernisation and reform. It hardly mattered what Dasha’s political beliefs were. She didn’t remember them. Varvakis would have the power to reshape those beliefs into a platform the country would accept. Ruslan smiled neutrally at the Captain over the rim of his glass, giving away none of his concern over such a strategy. ‘When do you intend to go back?’

‘That will depend on whatever news we receive about the revolution,’ Captain Varvakis said. ‘A queen must always be ready to serve her country.’ Or those who controlled her, Ruslan thought cynically. He pitied the woman upstairs bathing. Was she aware Varvakis viewed her as an artefact to be protected until it was time to be revealed? Did she share those views? That was what Ruslan needed to know next. He had no intention of promoting a restoration if the monarch in question was unwilling. Nor did he have any intention of promoting a monarch with a false promise simply for the expedience of putting a Tukhachevsken back in power. Kuban had risen up to claim a new life. He would not destroy that effort. It was a direction he and his family had wanted for the country, had sacrificed for.

Ruslan pushed a hand through his hair, his fingers meeting tangles. He’d done enough business in his pyjamas for one night. It was time to get dressed. If it was going to be a long day, it could at least be a productive one.

* * *

Three hours later, he was back in the drawing room, dressed and organised and waiting for the Princess. He’d sent word that she should come down at ten. The mantel clock was just striking the hour. A rustling at the entrance drew his eye and then stole his breath. The woman framed in the doorway barely resembled the ragged girl who’d gone upstairs. Her hair was done in a knot on top of her head, exposing the slender length of her neck, and a few curls had been left down to frame her face and soften the sharp heart-shaped angles of her jaw and chin. The rose gown made her skin glow and Ruslan found his eyes riveted on the simple strand of pearls that lay against the base of her throat. In a word, Dasha Tukhachevskenova was stunning.

‘Your Highness.’ Ruslan inclined his head from his position at the fireplace mantel. But Captain Varvakis went to her more formally and offered his hand.

‘Have the two of you decided my fate?’ There was an edge to her coy tone as she swept forward, disregarding Varvakis’s hand. Ruslan suppressed a smile. The Princess might have forgotten precise, physical memories, but she’d not forgotten what it was to be at court, where one had to watch every word, every association. There was hope in that. The Princess might prove to be less malleable than Varvakis believed.

‘I would not be so bold as to decide anything for you, Your Highness.’ Ruslan made a small bow of respect. ‘However, I have sent for a physician who is both discreet and knowledgeable about memory loss. Would you care to take the air in the rose garden while we wait?’ He gestured towards the wide French doors that opened into his prized garden. Garden space was at a premium in the city; he’d been lucky to find a home with one.

‘I would like that very much.’ The Princess shot him a considering look that said she guessed at a larger reason behind the offer. But it was a price she was willing to pay. Ruslan wondered what she wanted in exchange. Perhaps she, too, was interested in assessing him just as he was interested in assessing her—without the screen of Varvakis’s presence.

Outside, the sky was overcast as they walked the paved pathway that wound through his collection of roses. They made small talk as he introduced her to each type. ‘This one I got from a Lady Burton, she breeds them in Richmond. I call it the Debutante for its unique shade of white. But this one, I have grafted myself.’ Ruslan stopped at an ivory rose tinted with pink edges.

‘It’s beautiful. Does it have a name?’ Dasha bent to smell the flower, her eyes closed, long lashes fanning her cheek. If he were a painter, he’d want to capture the image of serene beauty she presented in that moment. An artist like Illarion’s wife, Dove, would appreciate the rose of her gown and the pink highlights on the flower. But he was not an artist. He was a thinker, an arranger.

‘Not yet.’ He held her gaze as she straightened. ‘Perhaps I should call it the Dasha, or the Princess. Your beauties complement one another.’

Dasha laughed. ‘Very nicely done, Prince Pisarev, but I don’t think you brought me out here to flirt.’ He would have, though, if circumstances had been different, if there hadn’t been so much at stake or so much unknown, if she’d simply been another pretty London debutante. She was just the sort of woman he liked: pretty and fresh, but not vacuous. Such traits were rather rare in fashionable society, or anywhere, actually. As a prince close to the Tsar, Ruslan had spent his days at court escorting the jaded wives of ambassadors and visiting generals. He knew just how rare such a woman was.

Ruslan chuckled. ‘I don’t think you came out here for flirtation either, so why don’t we cut line. Why did you come out?’

They began to stroll again, her arm tucked through his, to create the impression to anyone who might be looking on that nothing significant was taking place. It was a tactic he had used often to woo a secret or two from those worldly wives of diplomats. At court, one could never be sure who was listening.

The Princess wasted no time getting to her point. ‘Do you know me?’

The blunt sincerity of the question caught Ruslan entirely off guard. He’d expected questions about plans and plots, perhaps even an interrogation of his credentials. He slid her a considering glance. She would not want his pity, although he was tempted to give it. She’d been tugging on his somewhat less than objective heartstrings since she’d fallen into his arms, although he’d do well to resist the sentimental urge. Still, he wasn’t so heartless as to not recognise how horrible it must be to not know oneself. He admired her confidence in the face of such uncertainty, a reminder that she did know herself in some way, innately and instinctively if not exactly.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ Ruslan gave her the truth, although it was not the answer she hoped for. He covered her hand with his where it lay on his arm. ‘I knew your brothers: Peter, Grigori, Vasili. We grew up together.’ He paused, his earlier emotions of the morning threatening to get the better of him when he thought of their deaths. ‘I am genuinely sorry for your loss.’

‘Forgive me, but you have me at a disadvantage.’ She stopped walking and turned to face him, grief etched in her gaze, but a different grief than one might expect. This grief was twofold. ‘It seems you know more about my family than I do. I do not know if they were good or bad, kind or cruel, but I do know no one deserves to die that way. Don’t you see, Prince Pisarev? I can’t fully mourn them, not yet, not until my memories return.’ She shrugged. ‘Will you think I am cowardly, if I say it’s a blessing I can’t remember? Perhaps I am somehow spared the pain of loss.’ She looked away to a point beyond his shoulder, disappointment shadowing her green eyes. ‘I was hoping you knew me.’

‘I would have been too old to know you. You would have been only ten when I was at court with your brothers and younger still when I was running about the palace with them.’ Even at that age, he’d been arranging entertainment for the boys, always the ringleader coming up with a new adventure to fill the days. Those had been golden years, as a child growing up in the palace, his family in high favour with the Tsar. Those years had burned brighter still when he’d come of age, home from university, filled with ambition, before his family had fallen from grace. She would have been too young, too isolated to know of it. ‘Besides,’ Ruslan added, ‘you were raised in traditional fashion and kept out of public view.’ As were all gently bred Kubanian girls of high birth. They were sequestered away to the point of oppression. It was one of the contentions that had seen his friends, Nikolay and Illarion, exiled from Kuban, seen his father imprisoned and out of favour and now it had become one of the central issues that had sparked the revolution.

‘It is not surprising I don’t recognise you.’ He racked his mind for the least bit of memory and came up with one. ‘I do recall one Christmas, though. You were perhaps seven. We were home between terms from our respective universities and it had snowed. We had a snowball fight on Christmas Eve, with you, Grigori and Vasili against me and Peter. You wore your hair in braids with blue bows.’ He smiled fondly at the memory. ‘Kuban gets the best snow, not the wet stuff we have here in England.’

‘It sounds lovely, like something I’d want to remember.’ Dasha looked away, her gaze troubled.

Ruslan was quick to offer her consolation. Consolation came easy to him. He’d offered reassurances to other people in seemingly hopeless situations over the years. ‘It’s only been a few weeks. These things can take time. Sometimes the best remedy is to not try too hard to remember, to just let it happen.’

‘You are very kind.’ She offered him a faint smile and he did not bother to correct her. He was not kind. He was merely doing his job. Pretty as she was, she was just another project like all the other people he’d ferried out of Kuban over the years. The difference was that while they had wanted to get out, she wanted to get in.

‘And yourself, Prince Pisarev? It’s your turn. Why did you want to get me alone?’

‘I wanted to know your opinions about Varvakis’s plans. He would see you restored to the throne. That is an ambitious, if not dangerous undertaking, and one I would not support without your consent. Is that a road you wish to travel?’

They had reached the edge of the garden where a fence separated his luxurious home from the alley. She paused to fiddle with the ivy growing rampant against the wood. ‘I should wish it, shouldn’t I? A princess should want to go back, I should want to rally people to my cause, to my throne. Perhaps I should even want to avenge my family.’

‘But you don’t want those things?’ Now they were getting to the heart of it; not just her fear, but her doubt of her capabilities.

‘No, I don’t. Right now, anonymity is appealing. I would rather fade into nothingness than return to a place that might prefer to drag me out on my lawn and finish the task they started instead of negotiate with me, simply because of my father’s policies.’ She paused and gave him a reflective stare. ‘What sort of princess doesn’t want to go home or rule her people? What sort of princess chooses anonymity?’

Ruslan studied the woman beside him with careful eyes. She’d meant to shock him. The defiance in her eyes said so and she had. If she doubted her ability, others would, too. Her reservations would have to be downplayed or, better yet, changed.

‘Have you said anything about your concerns to Captain Varvakis?’ Ruslan asked quietly, intrigued by this new revelation. It seemed Varvakis was not only more confident in her ability to retake the throne than she was, but he was also more committed to the idea as well.

The French doors opened and Captain Varvakis hurried towards them. They hadn’t much left of their privacy and Ruslan had something more to say. ‘The doctor has arrived, Prince Pisarev. You must come at once. The butler isn’t sure where to put him.’

Ruslan nodded slowly, indicating he was going to be less flustered by the doctor’s arrival than Varvakis. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Captain, we’re nearly finished here. If you would, please, go ahead and tell Thomas to put the doctor in my study.’ It was a masterful dismissal, the kind of order Captain Varvakis was used to taking without question from his superiors.

Dasha smiled as the Captain hurried off again. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘Because I have something to say to you, Dasha, just you.’ Ruslan held her gaze for the space of a few seconds, long enough to let silence fall between them, long enough for her to acknowledge these words were not to be taken lightly. When one was talking of rulers and restorations, it was deadly serious business. ‘I am your ally whether you seek the throne or not. You should feel free to use the safety of this house as you desire. If your desire is to stay hidden and recover your memory, or simply to stay hidden and a build a new life, to take a new name and set all trappings of Kuban behind you, I will support that as I am able. If you wish to stage an effort to reclaim the throne on the grounds of modernising Kuban and abolishing archaic law, I will support that, too. But I will not pressure you one way or the other. No one can decide what happens next but you.’ It was the same reassurance he’d given others who had nowhere to go and nowhere to turn, although on a far less grand scale. Never before had those people been members of the royal family. ‘You are safe with me. I am here for you.’ Nothing less than honour and objectivity required that be his position.

‘Whoever that is?’ she questioned sharply.

‘Yes, whoever that is, émigrée or refugee princess.’ He dismissed her with an encouraging smile. ‘Now, go and see the doctor.’ He’d brought her the best and he was confident she’d be well taken care of. As for himself, he needed time with his thoughts before he faced Varvakis again. It was entirely possible the revolution would succeed or fall without any intervention from Princess Dasha, especially if no one suspected she was alive. He certainly wasn’t going to stake his life on forcing the issue unnecessarily and he definitely wasn’t going to force anyone else to do so, least of all a woman who might not be interested in the plots of men.

A single word from you, a little persuasion, could change that. You could make her see the possibilities such plots presented.

The temptation whispered itself into being and took up residence in the lodge of his conscience.

You could do it, too, you’ve done it before, helping men and women see things the way they needed to be seen, especially the women. You remember how to seduce...

Yes, dammit, he did remember. It had been a point of pride to know that when the Tsar needed a diplomat to change his mind on a trade agreement or an export tax, he’d sent Ruslan to ‘speak’ to their wives; ‘pillow talk,’ he’d called it. In that way, Ruslan had served Kuban and his Tsar, although it had all amounted to nothing when his father had fallen from favour. That was the way of Kuban. If one member of a family was disloyal, the entire family was blackened with the same brush.

You would be serving Kuban by persuading her. Varvakis is right, she’s the one they need. She can heal the country’s breach.

His conscience was relentless.

That was the larger temptation, because the ends did quite nobly justify the means. Persuading the ambivalent Dasha to return was in the country’s best interest. Under that aegis, he could conveniently overlook the personal gain to himself. Whatever he gained could just be a beneficial happenstance. He’d told Dasha he would not make that decision for her. But he’d said nothing about attempting to influence the decision. Would she even be aware he was influencing her?

Such things, as crass as they might be, must be contemplated when the fate of a kingdom hung in the balance. Revolutions created all nature of opportunities for those bold enough to take them—even opportunities for him. Which was why he had to remain absolutely objective. He’d been right to tamp down the wash of sentiment that had swept him in the garden. It would be easy to be lured by Dasha’s beauty, her desperate strength in the face of her personal tragedies. He could not afford to give into those emotions. Restoring the Princess was another project, not unlike the ones he’d done in the past, nothing more. The game was in motion once again. He’d do best to remember that small nuance.

But snuffing out hope was easier said than done. That tiny flicker of excited hope inside him refused to be extinguished entirely. If the Princess chose to take her place on throne, if he could see her successfully restored, perhaps he could find a way back, a way to erase the stain on the family name, to prove once and for all a Pisarev was loyal to the bone. It was the one thing he’d given up trying to do.

Ruslan looked about his newly acquired town-house garden. This house was proof of that decision. Proof that he’d given up thoughts of returning. A home implied permanence. He’d been moved in for all of two weeks. Ruslan laughed to himself. Just when he thought the door was finally shut on his past, it was starting to open again. Some would say Fate was a bitch. They were wrong. Fate just might be a princess.

Chapter Three

Prince Pisarev called it an intimate supper. Dasha called it a council of war. She surveyed the assembled guests from her vantage point at the drawing-room fireplace with a wary eye. The day had been spent in cautious meetings such as this; first with the Prince in the garden, then with the doctor and now this gathering. It consisted of one Russian diplomat in Alexei Grigoriev, the consul from St Petersburg; one Russian officer in General Vasiliev, also of St Petersburg; and three Kubanian princes. With the exception of Klara Grigorieva Baklanova, Dasha was the only woman present, further proof this was no ordinary supper party.

She sat at the foot of the table, a prince to her left, the darkly brooding Stepan Shevchenko. To her right sat another prince, Nikolay Baklanov, and his wife beyond him. Prince Pisarev sat at the head of the table with His Excellency Alexei Grigoriev. General Vasiliev and Captain Varvakis filled out the spaces between. Dinner was a tribute to Kubanian cuisine: a borscht soup with sour cream to begin, followed by beef and baby potatoes, all accompanied by wines from Ekaterinodar, one of the few areas in Russia where vineyards could be cultivated.

At the other end, Prince Pisarev raised his glass. ‘A toast to our lovely guest, Princess Dasha Tukhachevskenova. To safe arrivals and happier days. Na zdorovie!’ The Prince toasted her as if she were an honoured guest on a state visit, instead of a fugitive gone to ground.

Around Dasha, the words became a polite chorus. She smiled at the guests, graciously accepting the toast as if she had a right to the fiction the Prince created, all the time wondering how many of them, like herself, questioned her ability to make good on the claim. How many of them were sizing up the potential benefits of believing in her versus risks? No one did anything for nothing and supporting a princess with no memory of her own identity was no small thing to ask. This was the worst part of not remembering, of not knowing. Who did she trust? Who could she turn to?

When the chorus died down, she raised her own glass. ‘To our host, Prince Pisarev, whose hospitality has been unending.’ The Prince gave a slight incline of his head, his eyes steady on her as he drank. Was he also calculating the situation? Of course he was. His questions today indicated as much and he’d be a fool if he wasn’t—something she was certain he was not. Helping her was not without danger, should she choose to return to Kuban and embrace her heritage. It would be far easier for him if she chose anonymity. Far easier for her, too.

She wondered if, despite his vow to support her decision regardless of her choice, he would try to influence the situation towards a certain outcome? Would she ever truly be sure of his neutrality? Or truly sure that any decision she made was entirely hers alone? It occurred to her that Prince Pisarev was the man at this table she needed to be able to trust the most and the one she should probably trust the least, simply because he wielded the most power. She was in his house, under his protection, under his direction. Everything that had happened today was because of him—from her bath, to her clothes, to the excellent doctor and the dinner tonight. All of it was because of him. Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide anything tonight. But she’d have to decide soon, judging from the tenor of the conversation.

‘Are you saying the military is split on the rebellion?’ General Vasiliev questioned Captain Varvakis with a sharp eye. ‘If so, it is no wonder the Loyalists didn’t stand a chance, no ruler does without a unified show of military force.’

Captain Varvakis nodded in agreement and explained. ‘The Tsar’s restrictive marriage and career policies affected noble families perhaps the most. The younger generation of nobles felt increasingly alienated by the Tsar. He cut his support out from under himself, losing the allegiance of young nobility who were officers in his army.’ Along the table heads nodded. She did not know these men, Prince Nikolay Baklanov and Prince Stepan Shevchenko, but perhaps they had fled Kuban for precisely the same reason those left behind had rebelled. Her gaze rested on Prince Pisarev. Why had he left?

The consul, Alexei Grigoriev, looked contemplatively at his wine glass. ‘That being understood, the people in power would not be eager to welcome back a member of the Tsar’s family. The last thing they’d want would be a return to the past.’ He gave her a small, apologetic nod. ‘I speak frankly, Your Highness, that is all. I do not mean to slander you.’

Dasha smiled her own understanding. ‘Of course, no insult taken, Your Excellency.’ He’d done her a favour with his reference to her title, a subtle assumption of her authority. If he accepted her legitimacy, perhaps the others would, too.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Your Excellency,’ Captain Varvakis broke in quickly. ‘Princess Dasha represents the middle ground. She is of the royal bloodline, a natural ascendant to the throne as far as the hierarchy is concerned. But she is also young, and she has resisted her father’s policies as assuredly as the other young nobles of the kingdom have. The Loyalists will like and accept her as a ruler based on her lineage. The Rebels will accept her politics.’

Dasha tensed. Were those her politics? She didn’t know, quite honestly. As much as she didn’t like Varvakis or anyone else speaking for her, there was much she couldn’t speak for herself on. Who was she to say what she did or didn’t believe? It was a dangerous position for a future leader to be in. She was a blind woman, entirely reliant on Varvakis as her guide. She did not like feeling so exposed.