my name is Rose. Why am I here, wherever here is? Perhaps she should let the man think she was Elizabeth until she could figure out what happened. The tent flap rustled and she opened her eyes. The man was back. He crossed to her bedside dressed in a clean white shirt, black breeches and a gold and red uniform coat. She gasped in recognition. He is the one who ran into my horse! Before she could say anything he swept her up into his arms, blankets and all. Her head swam from the sudden movement and she leaned into his chest. He smelled of horses and brandy. He carried her from the tent out into the bright sunlight. She closed her eyes to shield them from the glare. He walked a short distance and then lowered her to a soft surface. Opening her eyes, she squinted to adjust to the light.
His head blocked the sun, his face lined in shadow. “I had my men pad the cart with their blankets so it woul d be more comfortable for you.” He walked away without waiting for a thank you and mounted a large gray horse.
Another uniformed soldier vaulted onto the small shaggy horse harnessed to the cart and they began to move. She closed her eyes against the surge of pain and nausea the bumpy movement caused, as the cart rolled forward.
* * * *
Something roused from her slumber. The rattling of the cart had ceased. Opening her eyes, she discovered they were in front of a large imposing stone palace. It was two stories high and topped with beautiful domed towers. The man who had slept by her bedside reached into the cart and picked her up. He carried her without a word up the steps into an impressive pale pink marble foyer.
“Anya,” he called.
She grimaced as the unwelcome noise pierced her foggy head like a shard of glass. “Please.”
He glanced down at her, his features softening. “Sorry.”
They crossed the shiny tiled floor and up a long curved staircase. The man paused at the top to call again, softer this time. “Anya.”
A short plump woman emerged from a room at the end of the hallway and answered him in Russian. When he started toward her she turned and went back into the room. He followed. She pulled back the blue velvet cover on a massive bed in the chamber and he laid her on it.
He stepped back. “This is Anya. She is the head of the servants here and is in charge of the domestic running of my home. She is the only one of the servants who speaks English so I will leave you in her care.”
Before she could think of anything to say, he turned and left without a backward glance. “Who is that man?” she asked the servant.
“Oh my.” The woman frowned. “It is just like Dimitry to forget his manners and not introduce himself.” She sighed and called out to a passing maid speaking to her for a moment in her native tongue. When the maid left and shut the door behind her, she turned back. “Well, shall we start by getting you cleaned up?”
“Where am I?”
The housekeeper smiled. “You are in Prince Dimitry Peterlovsky’s summer home. Your maid has been taken to the servant’s quarters.” She patted her hand. “Now let’s get those soiled clothes off.”
Chapter Six
Dimitry went to his bedchamber after he left the princess in Anya’s capable hands, ordered a bath be sent up and poured himself a glass of vodka. Sitting on the edge of the bed he took a sip from the glass, frowning at the taste of the strong liquor—too early in the day—before slamming it down on the nightstand. It is time I caught that damned rebel Cossack leader. He brooded over different plans to trap the man as he bathed, shaved and dressed. Clean and back in control, he ordered a meal be sent to his study and retreated there to await Victor’s report. He was only halfway through when the man arrived.
Victor dropped into a chair across from Dimitry and helped himself to a slice of buttered rye bread off his cousin’s plate. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dimitry groaned.
His head blocked the sun, his face lined in shadow. “I had my men pad the cart with their blankets so it woul d be more comfortable for you.” He walked away without waiting for a thank you and mounted a large gray horse.
Another uniformed soldier vaulted onto the small shaggy horse harnessed to the cart and they began to move. She closed her eyes against the surge of pain and nausea the bumpy movement caused, as the cart rolled forward.
* * * *
Something roused from her slumber. The rattling of the cart had ceased. Opening her eyes, she discovered they were in front of a large imposing stone palace. It was two stories high and topped with beautiful domed towers. The man who had slept by her bedside reached into the cart and picked her up. He carried her without a word up the steps into an impressive pale pink marble foyer.
“Anya,” he called.
She grimaced as the unwelcome noise pierced her foggy head like a shard of glass. “Please.”
He glanced down at her, his features softening. “Sorry.”
They crossed the shiny tiled floor and up a long curved staircase. The man paused at the top to call again, softer this time. “Anya.”
A short plump woman emerged from a room at the end of the hallway and answered him in Russian. When he started toward her she turned and went back into the room. He followed. She pulled back the blue velvet cover on a massive bed in the chamber and he laid her on it.
He stepped back. “This is Anya. She is the head of the servants here and is in charge of the domestic running of my home. She is the only one of the servants who speaks English so I will leave you in her care.”
Before she could think of anything to say, he turned and left without a backward glance. “Who is that man?” she asked the servant.
“Oh my.” The woman frowned. “It is just like Dimitry to forget his manners and not introduce himself.” She sighed and called out to a passing maid speaking to her for a moment in her native tongue. When the maid left and shut the door behind her, she turned back. “Well, shall we start by getting you cleaned up?”
“Where am I?”
The housekeeper smiled. “You are in Prince Dimitry Peterlovsky’s summer home. Your maid has been taken to the servant’s quarters.” She patted her hand. “Now let’s get those soiled clothes off.”
Chapter Six
Dimitry went to his bedchamber after he left the princess in Anya’s capable hands, ordered a bath be sent up and poured himself a glass of vodka. Sitting on the edge of the bed he took a sip from the glass, frowning at the taste of the strong liquor—too early in the day—before slamming it down on the nightstand. It is time I caught that damned rebel Cossack leader. He brooded over different plans to trap the man as he bathed, shaved and dressed. Clean and back in control, he ordered a meal be sent to his study and retreated there to await Victor’s report. He was only halfway through when the man arrived.
Victor dropped into a chair across from Dimitry and helped himself to a slice of buttered rye bread off his cousin’s plate. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dimitry groaned.
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