Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (15 page)

The thought that soon they would be truly alone, without any friend, however casual, to turn to made Octavia swallow hard. Her fingers crept of their own accord to touch the reticule looped on one wrist. During the morning, while Emma napped, she had taken the precaution of removing the loaded pistol from its case and placing it within easy access. She was not unaware of what sorts of dire things might befall a lone women, traveling with only a child for a companion. It didn't do to dwell on them, but at least she was not totally unprepared for whatever might happen.

The cook appeared at the door of the inn and motioned for her to approach. "Miss Hadley," he said in a low voice, before taking her inside. "There is a fellow here willing to hire himself to you for the entire journey. It would be vastly more comfortable than traveling by public conveyance." He paused before adding," And no doubt safer for you and the child. However, it will cost you."

"How much?"

He named the price.

Octavia took a moment to consider. The sum was high, but not outrageously so. She should still have enough left for their passage to London, if need be. And as her friend suggested, it offered a number of advantages. "That is acceptable."

"Good. Let us go make the deal." His voice dropped even more. "I will haggle, of course. You do not want him to see you as an easy mark. I have also not mentioned you are English. Just mutter an occasional answer in Russian and you should be able to manage. He won't expect any more from a woman."

She nodded her understanding.

"Another thing, he will want an advance. Take it out now, so you do not show him your entire purse."

She had already thought to transfer several of the gold coins into her pocket and gave them a jingle. The sound elicited a thin smile of approval. "As I said, you have a good head on your shoulders."

He pushed the door open and they went inside. It reeked of stale beer and the air was thick with the smoke from the iron woodstove and a number of Turkish cheroots. Three rough looking men drinking kvass at one of the small tables stopped fell silent as she walked by. One of them made a lewd comment, and the others snickered, adding their own coarse remarks. She ignored them.

Shishkov led her to where a heavy fellow with greasy blond hair and a spiky beard to match was sitting with his hands outstretched to the stove. Though his person could have done with a bit of soap and water, he had a cheerful countenance and clear blue eyes that crinkled in good humor as he got to his feet. Octavia found herself warming to him already.

"This is my... relative, who wishes to join her husband in St. Petersburg," began Shishkov. "While she is interested in your services, only a drunken donkey would be foolish enough to consider such a price...."

A heated negotiation followed, accompanied by dark mutterings, expressions of outrage and injured shrugs. A price was finally arrived at, with each party assuring the other that he had gotten the best of the deal. On Shishkov's signal, Octavia passed the gold Imperials to the newly hired driver.

"I wish to leave as soon as possible," she said.

He smiled, revealing a wide gap between his front teeth. "I shall see to having the horses harnessed. Best have a bite to eat here, ma'am. There's no telling what we may find ahead."

"Well, he seems a decent enough fellow," she whispered, once he had left the room.

Shishkov nodded. "The innkeeper says he is trustworthy, so I think you will not regret engaging his services."

They went back outside. Emma left off tossing pebbles into the brook that skirted the stableyard and came running to Octavia's side. The cook crouched down and touched her cheek. "Take care of yourself, Miss Emma," he said. "I wish you godspeed on your journey."

She gave him a big hug. "Thank you, Mr. Shishkov. I shall miss your apple tarts and your blinis with sour cream."

He got to his feet and held out his hand to Octavia. "And godspeed to you, Miss Hadley. You are a good woman, to look after the child. And a brave one."

She felt a sudden constriction in her throat as she made her own thanks. It was not easy to part with the only acquaintance she had in this part of the world. Still, she kept on a brave face as he mounted the seat of his wagon, then turned for a final wave as it lurched around a stand of silvery birches and towering Sitka spruce.

Emma's hand tightened in Octavia's. "What are we going to do now Miss Hadley?" she inquired in a small voice.

"We are going to have a nice hot meal," she answered with a rather forced gaiety. "And then we will set off in grand style, in our own private carriage, traveling just as any grand heroine would."

The little girl's eyes lit up. "We are?"

"Yes. Mr. Fetisov is going to drive us all the way to St. Petersburg, so we will not have to sleep on a sack of grain again. Or spend the night under the stars. No matter how much you enjoyed it, I, for one, do not fancy being out in the open when the snows begin." She looked up as another flake fell on her cheek. "For it seems that a Russian winter is fast approaching."

Though loath to go back into the fetid public room, Octavia forced aside any lingering hesitation. They would have to get used to rude remarks and bold stares from now on. It was best to get it over with. Taking Emma's arm, she walked purposefully through the creaking door and chose a little table in the far corner of the room. The trio of men fell silent when she reappeared, but their attention soon returned to their tumblers of kvass, and their conversation slowly picked up again, to her considerable relief.

The innkeeper quickly brought over two bowls of thick borscht, along with a wedge of dark pumpernickel bread liberally studded with caraway seeds. Chiding herself for being so apprehensive, Octavia let their two valises and her reticule settle to the floor, then slid her coat off onto the back of her chair. They began to eat, Emma peppering her with all manner of questions about the coming journey around mouthfuls of soup. More than once, Octavia had to remind the girl to keep her voice to a low whisper, for to announce that they were foreigners on top of being women traveling unescorted could only bring even more unwanted attention. Still, the hot food and the warm room were a welcome respite from the rigors of the journey so far....

A slurred shout suddenly interrupted their meal.

"Is that man speaking to us?" asked Emma, twisting in her chair to stare across the room.

"Ignore him," ordered Octavia in a low hiss. "And turn around this instant."

Startled by the sharp rebuke, the girl did as she was told. "But why is he yelling?" she persisted.

"Pay it no mind. He is saying something... improper."

"Why?"

"Not now, Emma. I will explain some other time. Put on your coat. We are going to leave."

"But I haven't finished—" She stopped in mid-sentence on catching the look on Octavia's face.

Octavia dropped a coin on the table, not caring that it was considerably more than necessary. "Stay close by my side, Emma," she said, reaching for their bags. "And pray, do not stop or say a word as we pass by them."

"You're a flashy bit of brass, aren't you?" came another loud taunt. "Coming in here passing out a handful of gold. Care to share your favors with us as well?"

Octavia's cheeks flushed crimson as she made for the door.

Emboldened by drink, one of them stood up to block her retreat. "Hear now, you hussy, we are talking to you!"

"I am a respectable woman. Kindly let me leave with my daughter."

"Respectable!" jeered one of the others. "No respectable woman travels alone." He lurched to his feet as well. "Is the girl included in the fun? She's a pretty little thing, ain't she, Dimitri?"

The third one smacked his lips. "A tasty morsel, Ilya. Both of them. And the purse will be even sweeter."

Laughter echoed through the dark space. The innkeeper, on hearing the drunken exchange, slowly backed toward his kitchen and crept behind the door. The bolt slid home with a distinct click.

Octavia swallowed her rising fear. "Stand aside, sir."

The one called Ilya narrowed his eyes, an ugly leer twisting his face. "Shut up! You ain't given the orders here."

Behind the men, the door pushed open to admit her hired coachman. "Ma'am, the horses are ready—" He bit off his words and his jovial face paled as he regarded the scene before him.

A knife flashed out from the pocket of one of the ruffians. "Be off if you know what's good for you," he snarled. "You've got your share of that fat purse. We mean to have ours—and more."

"Mr. Fetisov..." Octavia tried to keep her voice level. "Perhaps you might assist us to your carriage."

He bit his lip. "I... I have a wife and child, Ma'am," he stammered. "I'm... I'm sorry."

She fell back a step as the door slowly swung shut. Pushing Emma behind her so that she might serve to shield the girl, Octavia reached into her reticule and withdrew the pistol. "I shan't repeat it again—stand aside!" she said, with considerably more bravado than she felt.

A look of disbelief swept over Ilya's face, quickly replaced by a surge of anger at the prospect that their plans might be thwarted. "Pay the wench no heed," he snarled to his cohorts. Turning back to Octavia, he added, "You probably ain't never aimed one of those in your life."

"Perhaps not, but at this distance, I am bound to hit one of you," she said levelly as she cocked the hammer.

Ilya swore under his breath while the two behind him exchanged uneasy glances. They edged back toward their table.

"We are going to leave now. Any of you who tries to stop us will get a bullet for his troubles." Octavia whispered for Emma to follow close behind and started forward.

"Don't be idiots!" cried Ilya as the two other stumbled back another several paces. "She's only one bullet and there are three of us!"

Octavia paused and drew a bead on each of the men in turn. "So who wishes to be the lucky one? You? You? Or you?"

Ilya snarled a curse at her, then waved his hand at his comrades. "Split up, fools! Come at her from three directions."

Fear gripped at her heart. The man was right—there seemed to be no way out of this coil. Her mind raced, trying desperately to come up with some plan that might hold them at bay. Fortunately, the two men behind the leader still hesitated in obeying his command, allowing her a few extra seconds to think.

Then Ilya slowly took a nasty looking knife from his own pocket and spat on the floor. "Afraid of a damn woman? I'll show you how to deal with the bitch." The blade cut through the air in a menacing swipe. "You are going to pay for this!"

Just as he was about to lunge forward, the front door swung open once again. Ilya's head jerked around. "I told you, coachman, get out of here or you shall have your gut carved up when we've finished with these two."

The figure silhouetted in the door what not, however, that of the driver Fetisov, but rather a much taller, leaner man. Glancing quickly from the group of men brandishing knives to Octavia with her pistol outstretched in a slightly trembling arm, a faint smile stole to the newcomer's lips.

"Why, Miss Hadley. I am glad to see that in the face of three assailants you have the good sense not to count on your knee."

Chapter 8

"Mr. Sheffield! What on earth are
you
doing here?"

His lips quirked. "Come, Miss Hadley, I should have expected something a good deal more dramatic than that. You might say, 'Oh, thank the Lord my daring rescuer has arrived!' Or you might at least swoon."

She glared at him. "That's
not
funny. This is no time for joking."

"No, I can see that." His expression immediately turned serious. "You have done extremely well for yourself, but now, perhaps you would allow me to take that pistol from you. I fancy I have a good deal more experience with such things than you."

She started to turn.

"Pray, do not alter your aim, Miss Hadley," he said calmly as he stepped inside the inn. "I am going to move to your side, but I suggest neither of us take our eyes off of these fellows."

Ilya flung a particularly obscene curse at Alex, then kicked a chair over to punctuate to his mounting frustration. "Who is this son of a she-bitch? What in the name of the Devil are they saying?" he demanded in a querulous voice, for the last little exchange had taken place entirely in English.