A noise somewhere beyond her snagged her attention. The deep, comforting rumble of male voices trying to speak quietly. Anya listened, not quite ready to open her eyes.
“Why isn’t she waking up?”
That was Dmitri’s voice, so dear and unexpectedly sweet that her heart contracted with fierce joy.
“She will.”
That was Sebastien, his tone slightly less confident than usual. Anya suppressed a smile. He sounded worried about her. How wonderful.
“She might not wake for another few hours,” Seb said. “You might as well give me an account of your adventures, Denisov, to pass the time. What happened to you? The princess thought you were dead.”
Anya realized that she was in a bed. But where? Was she back at the dowager duchess’s house? Her own tiny Covent Garden apartment? She opened her eyes just a crack and recognized the deep burgundy hangings of Sebastien’s bedchamber. So, she was back at the Tricorn. A wash of inexplicable pleasure warmed her.
“Not dead,” Dmitri said from her left side. “Merely insensible. The last thing I remember from the battle itself was a giant of a Frenchman coming at me with asaber—and then nothing, until I woke up to find someone tugging on my legs. The battle was long over. It was the following day, and some cheeky sod was trying to steal the boots right off my feet! I sat up and must have given him a dreadful shock because he took one look at me, all covered in gore, and screamed as if he’d seen the devil himself. I shouted right back at him. He dropped my feet and took off running.”
Dmitri let out a wry chuckle at the macabre image, and the sound was echoed by a deep rumble from her right. Sebastien was sitting next to the bed; the familiar scent of him teased her nostrils.
“I must have lost consciousness again,” Dmitri continued, “because when I next awoke, I was in a cart, being dragged to a hospital in Antwerp. My skull had been cracked like the shell of an egg. My recovery took months, and I quickly discovered that there were huge gaps in my memory. I could recall some things with amazing clarity—like the time Anya got stuck in the tree in the orchard when she was eight and threw plums at me when I tried to help her down.”
Anya smiled inwardly at the memory, but didn’t open her eyes. She heard Seb exhale lightly.
“That sounds like the kind of thing she would do.”
Her heart gave a little somersault. Was she just imagining the dry fondness in his tone?
Dmitri snorted. “Unfortunately, I’d forgotten the few months prior to the battle. I didn’t recall being in Vienna, or General di Borgo, or the fact that Anya was waiting for me in Paris. I thought she was safely back in St. Petersburg. As soon as I was well enough to travel, I set off home. I was almost in Moscow when I finally remembered everything.
“I’d been looking into rumors that someone was passinginformation to the French, and I’d intercepted a letter that proved it was Petrov. I was going to give it to the Tsar at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, but the orders came to march to Waterloo—at three in the morning. I stashed the letter at the inn, intending to return for it later.”
Anya felt a rush of air beside her as Seb stood. His footfalls retreated across the room, she heard the tinkle of glass and the splash of liquid, and deduced he was pouring a drink. Her suspicions were confirmed when she caught a pleasant whiff of brandy and heard Dmitri’s low murmur of thanks.
“The duchess’s ball was held in a barn where the carriages were usually stored, since it was the only place large enough to accommodate so many guests. I hid the letter high up on one of the rafters, behind a bird’s nest. It was still there when I returned, months later. I went to Paris to find Anya, but everyone I spoke to said she’d disappeared.”
Anya almost made a murmur of distress.
“I knew she was far too stubborn to drown herself, as everyone seemed to think.”
Dmitri’s voice held a note of pride that warmed her heart.
“And when I heard Petrov had been found unconscious in her apartment, I knew there was more to the tale. I followed him here to London, hoping I’d find her. I’ve been spying on him for weeks, trying to get on board that ship of his in case she was being held prisoner, but when I finally managed it, all I found was that doddering old priest.”
Anya opened her eyes. She tried to speak, but it came out as more of a croak, and she realized her throat was parched. The two men hovering at her bedside came into focus and Dmitri’s face broke into a wide smile of relief.
“Anya, you’re awake! Thank God!” He smoothedhis hand over her forehead. “You feel much cooler now. Have a drink.”
Anya returned his smile then risked a glance over at Sebastien, but his expression was harder to read. He looked grim. Dark stubble shadowed the angles of his jaw, and his eyes searched hers as if seeking confirmation of some question he hadn’t asked.
Anya pushed herself up on the pillows and accepted the glass of water he offered with a nod of thanks. She turned to Dmitri.
“Vasili thought you’d sent me that evidence. He wanted to ensure my silence by marrying me. I fled to London, but he had his men try to kidnap me.”
Dmitri let out an angry oath, but she put a soothing hand on his arm and shot a grateful glance over at Seb. “Lord Mowbray rescued me. And took it upon himself to protect me, despite his initial reservations.”
Anya gazed at him across the distance of the bed, and her heart pounded as she struggled to find the right words to convey the immense gratitude she felt.
The love.
“In fact,” she croaked, “he has saved my life on several occasions, and I owe him a debt I can never repay.”
