A Sister's Quest (26 page)

“Your mother told me that it was of her and Michel, painted shortly after they wed.”

She did not trust herself to speak as she stared at the handsome man whose zest for life burned in his eyes. His arm was around her mother's shoulders. On his lapel, he wore the tricolor favored by those who supported the Revolution in France. The Revolution where he had been executed on the guillotine.

“After Sophie died,” he said quietly, “I went to where she had been staying. I wanted to collect any materials that she might have left behind.” Tapping the top of the frame, he sighed. “I found this. At the time, I did not think of how I was depriving you of it. Now you have it, as you should have years ago.”

“Thank you. It is nice of you to—”

“This has nothing to do with being nice,” he fired back.

She gasped as he surged to his feet “Alexei—”

“I want you to look at those two happy people,” he continued as if she had not spoken, “and see what their ideals cost them. Your father dead because the ones he supported turned on him like rabid dogs. Your mother dead because she was determined to continue the work he had started to bring peace to France.” He bent and pressed his mouth to hers.

She should push him away, but she could not. Stroking his uninjured shoulder, she let his kiss sweep her away from pain into precious pleasure. His tongue probed deep into her mouth, demanding more. She wanted his arms around her as she lost herself in his caresses as she had that one magical night.

“No,” she murmured when he drew back too soon.

“Exactly.”

She gazed at him, baffled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you are right. I should not be kissing you when I need to be focusing on my work.”

Putting the portrait on the bed, she stood. She held on to the tester, not sure if she could move any farther when she quivered with rage. “So that is how you will report the whole of this to your superiors? That you were betwattled by passion and it will never happen again?”

“I will tell them the truth.”

“That you were so anxious to take my virginity that you were willing to risk even your mission and that you are sorry for your mistake and it will never happen again. Alexei Vatutin would not be so foolish to ever feel anything but hatred for the rest of his life.” She picked up the portrait. “You may have thought you were giving me this to prove your point, but you have failed. My mother and father dared to love each other
in spite of the
dangers they faced. They never blamed those dangers because they were afraid of opening themselves to love.”

“Michelle—”

“Are you going to deny it?”

“No.” He walked to the connecting door. “I cannot deny the truth, nor can I deny that I will do anything to keep you safe.”

“Even break my heart?”

“Haven't I proven already that I am more than willing to do that?” He closed the door behind him.

Michelle sank to the chair where he had been sitting. She stared at the portrait in her hand, but it was too late to ask all the questions she had. Even if she could speak to her parents, she doubted if they would have an answer to help her now.

Chapter Sixteen

Although Alexei left the apartment no more than she did, Michelle was not surprised when he asked her to help with some correspondence. Occasionally he had visitors. Some she knew. Others were strangers, but all seemed eager to discuss the unwieldy progress of the Congress. She watched as Alexei listened. She remembered how he had told her that he never forgot what he heard, and she knew he was gathering information from his guests.

“You want me to help with your secret work?” she asked, remembering how he had chastised her for coming into his room when he was working.

He smoothed her hair back toward the utilitarian braids she wore. “Who else can I trust as I do you?”

“Rusak.”

“Obviously, but Rusak never learned to write.”

“Never?”

He smiled tightly. “Now you sound like a schoolteacher again. I need
your
help. Will you help me?”

“Haven't I always?”

“Not always willingly.”

She smiled and brushed his face, which was thick with golden whiskers that had swallowed his once neat mustache. As he had told her once, his beard was a splotched array of colors, none alike. The curve of his jaw was shadowed by darker brown, but beneath his mustache, the hair was as blond as atop his head.

His bandaged hand covered hers, holding her but not imprisoning her. When his other arm encircled her waist, her eyes closed in surrender. Sparks tickled her skin as he tasted her cheek. The rough texture of his bandage scraped her face, but she thought only of his heated lips and the softness of his beard against her skin.

She raised her arm to encircle his shoulders, but pain burned her. When she moaned, Alexei asked, “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Her wry smile eased the lines across his forehead. “I hurt myself. I bumped my arm on you.”

“I am sorry.”

“I am not.” She teased the small hairs at the nape of his neck. “Only that you have stopped kissing me.”

“That can be remedied very quickly.” He pressed his lips against hers, then led her along the hallway.

Michelle wished he were inviting her into his room to exult in passion, but, when she saw his mouth tighten, she knew he was thinking again of work.

“Close the door,” Alexei ordered over his shoulder as he gestured toward a chair by his desk. “Sit down.”

She did as he requested. The abrupt return of his autocratic tone irritated her. Again the jovial, gentle lover had disappeared.

“You will find writing materials there,” he said.

“Where?” She stared at the cluttered desk. Before the attack on them, no papers had been left on it. She doubted if these had any importance, or he would have hidden them.

When he swept the papers aside, he opened an ink bottle and set it beside a stack of clean paper. “I will tell you what I want written. You must write it exactly as I tell you. You are a good speller, I assume.”

“I believe so.”

“Don't worry. I shall check it when you are finished.”

Her hand clenched on the clean paper. “Stop being condescending to me, Alexei!
You
need me to help you.”

“You don't need me?” He slanted toward her. Yesterday the doctor had removed the heaviest bandages, so only a small one covered his right eye and temple. He could have been a rapacious pirate. “Who pays for the roof over your head and Herr Doktor Telemann for his many visits? You smell beef cooking in the kitchen. Could you afford to buy that?”

“Mayhap! If you paid me!”

He laughed without humor. “So you want an accounting of your wages?”

“No!” she cried, irritated. She did not want to argue with him. She wanted to help him, for, when he completed his work in Vienna, they could leave and give his enemies no second chance to kill them. “Tell me what you want me to write.”

He grumbled something and dropped into a chair he pulled beside hers. “Put today's date at the top of the page.” He smiled. “You write with a nice hand.”

“Years of penmanship lessons. You didn't think
Maman
chose St. Bernard's without thought, did you? She often said my lessons would prepare me for life.” She looked at the page in front of her. “I doubt if she meant a life like this.”

“Doubtlessly you are right.” He sighed. “All right. Write this. ‘Up six, across one. Morning effect.' End of sentence. New sentence.” He paused, composing his next words. “‘Eager rigid week.'”

“Excuse me?”

“Just write what I tell you.”

“Alexei, this is absurd. It makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Exactly.” He placed his foot on the stool in front of him and winced. “Damn leg. How do you make recovering look so easy?”

“I listen to the doctor.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Write, ‘Blue afternoon sings thirty-five. Christmas—'”

“A code!” She stared at the crazy pattern of words. “It is a code!”

“Of course. Now will you please write?”

Michelle bent to her task. When she finished the first page, he told her to start another. As an hour passed, her fingers grew cramped, but she did not complain. It was exhilarating to be doing something other than sitting and waiting for the day to pass. That he spoke slowly enough for her to maintain his pace was a pleasant shock.

Finally, as twilight was inching across the floor, Alexei said, “That is the last of those,
Liebchen
.”

Her hand trembled as she handed him the page.
Liebchen?
He had not called her that since the attack on the carriage. When he lowered his eyes, his jaw working, she knew he had not meant to say that Why? Because it showed that his feelings for her had not changed?

Alexei read the letter. With a taut smile, he folded it and put it aside. “One more, if you do not mind.”

Although she wanted to speak about the word that hung between them, she said, “Go ahead.”

“Address it to Monsieur René LaTulippe, Paris, France.”

“Paris?”

“Write it in French.”

“If that is what you want.” Michelle now was completely baffled. Why would he want her to write in a language he could not read?

He smiled. “‘Monsieur LaTulippe, I regret to inform you of the demise of Alexei Vatutin.'”

“What?”

“Just write. ‘He was shot by assassins aiming at Herr Claus Damrosch, a diplomat from Prussia. Accept my condolences.' Sign it ‘Sincerely' and your name.”

“My name?” Michelle frowned.

“It cannot be from me. Dead men do not write to let others know of their tragic deaths.”

“But my name? Shouldn't I just make up a name?”

He shook his head and gave her a weary smile. “LaTulippe knows that you are traveling with me. It is most logical coming from you.”

“Is he one of your superiors?”

“Do not ask too many questions.” He took the letter from her and set it aside so the ink would dry. “I am just trying to forestall any potential problems.”

Putting the top on the bottle of ink, she said, “He is sure to discover that I—or rather, that you are lying.”

“News travels very, very slowly through the Alps. This should keep him satisfied until we are ready to leave Vienna.”

“And then?”

He smiled as he stroked her hair. “Then I shall begin my next assignment, Michelle.”

“And me?”

“You shall have an assignment, too.”

“With you?”

“It is possible. We have had a rough start.” He tilted her face up toward his. “Having you near reminds me that not everyone is accursedly wicked.”

“I don't know, Alexei. Sometimes the serenity of St. Bernard's seems to be the most perfect thing I can imagine.”

“And the most boring.”

“Admittedly, but I must make this decision with care.”

He patted her shoulder as he stood. “You cannot escape what you have become by going back to what you were. Many in Vienna remember your mother and want to know if you are related to her. They are determined to discover the truth.”

“I should have traveled under an assumed name.”

“That would have made no difference. Questions of how a Russian delegate has an incredibly lovely Swiss woman as his mistress have been eagerly repeated throughout Vienna. Someone with connections in Zurich is sure to discover you left St. Bernard's to join me.” He shrugged, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “Your choices are limited. You can work for us, doing what you are told to do—”

“Or …?”

“Or open yourself up for attacks like this.” He tapped her bandaged arm lightly. “Choose with care. The wrong choice may be your last.”

“Alexei?”

“Hmm?” At Michelle's question, Alexei continued to peruse the newspaper that Rusak brought each afternoon from the shop on the corner. As soon as Rusak delivered it, Alexei sat in the parlor and read every word. He must be looking for information on whatever had brought him to Vienna.

Reaching across the arm of his chair, Michelle drew the pages aside. This was the first time they had been alone in the two weeks since Christmas. The housekeeper, the doctor, or Rusak always kept them company. Frau Schlissel was at the butcher's, Rusak was attending his lesson with Herr Professor Waldstein, and Herr Doktor Telemann was not due back for a week.

“Alexei?” she repeated. When he glanced at her, she asked, “Who fired on our carriage?”

His brow reached toward the smaller bandage across his forehead. “Do you always jump into a conversation with such a question?”

“I would like an answer to that question.”
And to why you believe keeping me safe is more important than my heart
.

“As I would.” He tapped the page in front of him. “The Prussians are still demanding an investigation to uncover why Damrosch was murdered.”

“You know the reason,” she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. “He was in our carriage. Whoever fired on us had no idea that Herr Damrosch was in our carriage and sitting where we usually sat. Alexei, they were hoping to kill us. To kill you!”

He rubbed the scar on his cheek, but turned a page as if he were more interested in the latest gossip than in finding out who had tried to murder them. “Such outbursts are not good for your recovery.”

She tugged on the pages again. When they ripped, he glared at her, but she refused to be intimidated. “Be honest with me!”

“All right.” He put the paper on his lap. “I will be honest with you. I do not want you to get involved in things you need not know about.”

“I am involved already.” She pointed to her splinted arm.

He shook his head. “No, you are not truly involved. You just got in the way.”

“Alexei, you cannot protect me by leaving me ignorant. It is not—”