The Perfect Scandal (18 page)

T
HE VIOLENT JERK OF HIS BODY
made Tristan snap wide awake from a dreamless slumber he didn't even remember falling into. As the carriage jerked back and forward again, he tightened his hold on Zosia and dug both of his booted feet against the floor in an effort to keep them from spilling forward. He leaned back against the seat, trying to balance them against the motion.

Muffled shouts from the driver and the footman made him freeze as the carriage jolted again, lurching the entire coach from side to side. It was slowing drastically from the fast pace he had demanded the driver keep. The tugging of the horses reducing their gallop slanted them forward and backward.

“Moreland?” Zosia sat up sleepily against him, swaying within his arms. “What is it?”

“I don't know.” Yet something whispered that his time with her was coming to a quick end. Dearest God, why did fate hate him so? Was he that unworthy?

Releasing his hold on Zosia, he slid across the seat, shoved aside the curtains and unlatched the carriage window. “Clayton!” Tristan shouted out into the night toward the driver seated high above. “Why are we slowing?”

“Benson needed an opportunity to better prime our pistols, my lord!” Clayton shouted back. “I'll be returning the horses to a faster pace the moment he's done.”

“Why is Benson priming pistols?” he demanded.

“A group of riders have been following us! Since Greenwich. They've kept their distance, for the most part, but appear to be moving in and we thought it best to take precautions.”

The carriage jerked steadily forward at a faster speed, sending the misty night wind whistling around him. Tristan leaned farther out the window, searching for the riders, and glanced around the fast-moving landscape, barely illuminated by the moon breaking through the clouds. The violent swinging of the lighted lanterns outside the carriage cast just enough
light to extend beyond the gravel road crunching beneath the wheels as they whizzed by.

He froze.

The faceless shadows of two men in large military hats galloped into view several feet behind the carriage. One shouted something to the other in another language.

Russian
.

One of the riders pushed his horse forward and closer, his hand jerking up from beneath his cloak. The outline of a pistol hovered, aiming straight at Tristan's own head.

“Shit!”
Tristan lunged back into the carriage as a thundering shot rang out amidst the storming clatter of hooves and wheels. He gasped for breath, steadying himself against the door. One horseman he could easily overtake. Benson and his pistols could oversee the others.

Hissing out a breath, Tristan gathered Zosia and yanked her off the seat, setting her gently on the floor of the carriage. “Remain on the floor.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “Whatever happens, I want you to remain right where you are.”

She scrambled to push herself up. “Tell me what to do. Tell me and I will—”

“No!”
he shouted, grabbing hold of her shoulders and shaking her hard, until every muscle in his body felt like fire. “They won't hurt you, Zosia. They are
not here to hurt you. But if you accidentally get in the way of a stray bullet, I cannot very well protect you from it, can I? Now, remain where you are. Promise me you will.” He held her intent, shadowed gaze, willing her to submit.

She hesitated, but eventually half nodded.

Although he could see fear etched within her pale face as the carriage bobbed them from side to side, her eyes were steadily fixed on him. It was as if she had no doubt he could protect them and was simply waiting for him to do something.

And do something he would.

He scrambled up and slid back to the open window. He could make out the shadow of a cloaked man galloping steadily closer.

At least he had one reliable weapon.

Tristan yanked out his razor case, flicked open the hinged lid and grabbed the razor out of the box. Snapping it closed, he tossed it onto the seat and unfolded the blade, angling the handle in his right hand. Gripping the looped leather handle hanging from the ceiling of the carriage, he propped himself on the ledge of the open window.

He leaned out as far as he could, the wind trying to push him back against the carriage. Shadows of the night whirled fast around him, but his eyes instantly focused on the closest faceless man.

Lifting his left hand, he drew the steel of the razor
level to the side of his jaw, fighting against the wind that whipped around him and vibrated his entire arm.

He suddenly paused, swaying against the lashing wind. There, just beyond the glow cast by the lanterns and the moonlight that appeared and disappeared behind clouds, a total of six shadowed riders—not two—now visibly trailed the carriage, all of them wearing similar military hats and cloaks.

His eyes widened as he sucked in a ravaged breath. He couldn't fight them all. Not even if he was armed to the teeth. Which he wasn't.

One rider shouted out in a heavy accent above the thrashing and whistling wind,
“By order of the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, halt! Halt or blood will soon pour!”

His throat burned. This had all warped into something far beyond his control. He wasn't about to put Zosia, his driver and his footman at risk. Even if it cost him everything. Which he knew it would.

He released his blade, letting it clatter against the side of the carriage and disappear beneath the fast-spinning wheels, and shouted up at the driver,
“Stop the coach! Now!”

“My lord?” the footman shouted. “Is it wise that we—”

“Stop the goddamn coach!”
he roared against the thundering noise around him. “Benson, put away
your pistols and don't
ever
question my authority again!”

“Yes, my lord!”

His body weakening, Tristan leaned in through the window and slid back inside the carriage. He stumbled as the carriage kept jerking against progressive sharp halts. He yanked the carriage window shut and sagged onto the floor beside Zosia.

Dragging in deep, ragged breaths, he looked over at her, knowing nothing would ever be the same. It was over before it had even begun. Before he ever had the chance to know what it would be like to truly be loved by her.

He met her solemn gaze within the jumping shadows the small lantern made above their heads and wondered if she would ever forgive him.

Christ. This was all a nightmare. “We have to stop. They are not here to harm you. If I cooperate, they may spare my life.”

Zosia scooted close to him, burying her dark head and soft shoulder against his chest.

“Hold me,” she whispered softly, her hands fisting his coat. “Please hold me.”

“Shh. All will be well. I promise.”

“Why are we being chased? What do they want?”

“Forgive me, Zosia. Forgive me for putting you through this. I should have never…” Shifting against her on the floor, he wrapped his arms tightly around
her and pulled her close to him, setting his chin on her soft hair. It didn't matter what happened to him. It was time to stop being so viciously selfish and let her go. It was time to give her the dream she had always wanted. A dream that included her hero and the opportunity to be a much bigger voice for her nation. Dreams that had never included him.

The carriage slowed, tugging and pulling until it soon clattered to an abrupt halt, rocking them from side to side. An eerie silence now pulsed around them, interrupted by the approaching thudding hooves and shouts of men in the distance. Shouts in a flurry of Russian.

Her soft warmth dug into his. “Russian?”

He swallowed. “Do you understand what they're saying?”

She shook her head against him. “No. I never learned Russian. My mother thought it unpatriotic.”

If the situation weren't so dire, he would have actually laughed. Her mother had been one determined devil of a woman to have placed
this
many divides between Zosia and Russia. It was time to bury those intentions by honoring Zosia in the only manner he knew how. “Zosia, your mother
was
Russian. She was Russian royalty, in fact. Which is what you are.”

She stilled in his arms. “What?”

He tightened his hold on her, trying to pour whatever strength he had within his own body into hers.
“Empress Catherine—
your grandmother
—shared a liaison with your grandfather, Poniatowski. It resulted in the birth of your mother. That is the only true connection you share with the Polish crown. The Empress sought to bury her association with him by staging your mother's death and giving her a new identity in Warsaw. Though the Empress eventually sought to reinstate your mother to the Russian Court, she died before she could. Before her death, however, she issued a letter to your mother that was delivered to her by a young Russian, who fell in love with her, but did not disclose who he was until after your birth.”

“My father?” she rasped against him.

“Yes. Your father. The former Emperor of Russia, Alexander the First. Upon discovering his identity, your mother denied him of you and refused any association with Russia, turning to the Poniatowski family. To the end, your mother, as well as your cousin, sought to keep you out of the Russian Court. That is why the Russians are here, Zosia. They want to take you home. They seek to make you Grand Duchess.”

“My father…he was…he was…the Emperor?” She choked and shook her head against him.
“Nie. Boz?e, nie rozumie jak moja własna matka—”

“Dearest,” he whispered, fighting the burn in his
own throat. He didn't need to understand her words to understand her anguish. “I am so sorry. I—”

“What am I to do now?” her voice pitched in panic. She choked back a sob. “If they seek to make me Grand Duchess, they will expect me to support Russia. And I…I cannot. I cannot! Not after what I have seen done to innocent people under their power. What am I to do, Moreland?
What am I to do?
”

“Shhh. Listen and listen well. His Majesty insisted that this duplicity would dismantle you, but he doesn't know you the way I do. You are
meant
for a role like this and will guide the Russian Court in better understanding your people. A true leader, which I know you are, understands both sides and seeks to bring them together as one. Regardless of who your father was, you were raised a Pole and will do right by those who raised you, without turning against your heritage. This is your dream, Zosia. Embrace it as one.”

“Embrace being Russian? But Moreland, I—”

The carriage door banged open, making them both tilt toward its direction.

A tall, well-muscled gentleman garbed in black military ensemble, with golden-tasseled epaulets and rows of medals pinned on his upper left chest, stepped forward and pointed the muzzle of a large pistol into the carriage. At Tristan's head.

It was none other than her damn gallant. How
fitting. The man had said that the next time they met Tristan would find himself at the end of the man's pistol.

“Do not hurt him!” Zosia cried, her warm hands jumping up to Tristan's own face, as she used her own body to try to shield him.

A glowing pride filled Tristan as he yanked her down and away from the pistol. “Zosia. Please. Don't.”

The man's sharp features softened.
“Velikaya Knyazha.”
His shadowed gaze drifted appreciatively down her gown before drifting back up to her face.

Tristan's throat tightened as he jerked Zosia down against himself, trying to shield her from far more than just the man's pistol. “Lower your pistol, sir, lest you misfire with all that damn amorous intent.”

“Moreland. Is this not the same man who…” Zosia pushed at his arms and leaned far forward, ignoring Tristan's attempt to shield her from the pistol. “Why, I know you,” she whispered at the man, her voice soft and full of wonder. “Heavens above, 'tis you.
You.
I barely recognized you. Your hair is so much longer and you shaved your mustache.”

Tristan's breath hitched as his hands slipped down to Zosia's waist. He swept the length of the interloper's large, muscled frame boasting a well-fitted military uniform. He supposed it was something a woman would appreciate.

The officer lowered his pistol and grinned, a visible dimple—the man had to have a dimple—indenting his shaven right cheek. He shrugged as his other hand adjusted the red ribbon holding his dark mane at the base of his high collar. Russian words flew rapidly from his lips, his commanding voice dipping and rising, conveying God knew what.

Zosia glanced up at Tristan, her cheeks flushing to a deep crimson that was noticeable despite the shadows and dim lantern lighting the carriage. “He seems to think I speak Russian.”

Why was she blushing? She never blushed like that around him. Why was she—

The Russian leaned in, his dark, arched brows coming together. “Do you not also speak…?”

Tristan tightened his hold on her. “No. She does not speak Russian.”

The man leaned back, glancing toward the small group of soldiers who had gathered behind him, and cleared his throat. He shifted back toward them, as if debating which language he should be using.

“English,” Zosia insisted. “So that we might all understand.”

The man leveled an intimate gaze at Zosia, a smile flitting across his lips. “English it is, Grand Duchess. 'Tis an honor to behold you in such health, and to be remembered, given the number of years it has been. Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Count
Maksim Nikolaevich, and by royal decree, as was ordained by your father, I am here to return you to Saint Petersburg and reinstate you as Grand Duchess by making you my wife.”

She gasped.
“Your wife?”

Tristan cringed. This just kept getting worse.

Maksim grinned, genuine pride warming that heavy accent. “I have waited years for the honor.
Years
.”