The Counterfeit Count (3 page)

He bent and slipped his arm under her knees before she could collapse. Easily, he lifted her. For all her contrariness, she weighed less than some of the equipment he had dragged across France. Dropping her, without compassion, into the pile of pillows, he stepped back and rested his hand on the upright of the tester.

He said nothing as she coughed, fighting to regain her breath, but he could not halt his gaze from tracing her splendid shape again. With her tousled, tawny curls edging her face like an aurora and her cheeks regaining their dusting of pink, she was an invitation to thoughts that had nothing to do with the present predicament. She took deep breaths to steady herself, and he followed the motion of her breasts which were covered by the undecorated linen. Her slender waist needed no corset. And her legs … Firmly, he told himself to keep his mind on the problems at hand. 'Twas not easy when she was half-dressed and lying in his guest bed.

She scowled at him and started to speak. Only another cough emerged. When she pulled a pillow in front of her to conceal the curves that had betrayed her, he knew she could not guess how the lace on its edges accented the femininity she fought to hide. Why had he failed to notice that her cheeks had never suffered the honed edge of a razor? Mayhap he had been beguiled, even then, by the lush wealth of gold lashes surrounding her bewitching eyes.

Damme! He must not let himself be seduced by this woman who paraded about in a man's uniform as bold as a cyprian plying her trade in Covent Garden.

Coolly, he asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

He leaned forward until his nose was only inches from hers. In spite of himself, he noted how warmly tanned her skin was. Such a healthy hue was not the rage for ladies, but the color accented her sapphire eyes. His hand clenched on the post. More fiercely, he reminded himself again that when her lips were so close beneath his was not the time to think of how luscious she looked.

He drew back a few inches before temptation persuaded him to taste her lips. Irritation at his own reaction to this pretty sprite spiked his voice. “Answer me—” He swore, then demanded, “What is your name? Your real name!”

He expected her to demur, but she answered, without emotion, “Natalya Dmitrieff.”

“Then tell me, Natalya Dmitrieff, why Colonel Carruthers arranged for you to come here.”

Her eyes narrowed with bafflement, and he noted how she tensed against the pillows. Even though her hair might be as soft and silky as a kitten's, she had already proven she could fight like a lion. He would be cork-brained to trust her even for a minute.

“I had no place else to stay,” she said in the warm voice that had startled him when he first heard her speak. “There was not room enough for me to stay with the Grand Duchess's party at the Pulteney Hotel.”

“But why here?”

“I told you.” Pressing her hand to her side where he had held her so roughly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She must have sensed his gaze riveting on them, because she pulled the burgundy blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her as she stood. “My English is not perfect. Mayhap I do not make myself clear. I was told Colonel Carruthers arranged for me to stay here. But as a joke?
Ya ne ponimáyu
.” Quickly, she added, “Excuse me. I do not know what you mean.”

When Lord Ashcroft stepped in front of her, Natalya glowered at him. She had faced scores of men across bared swords with the smoke of battle smothering her. This English lord would not daunt her. She had met taller men and shorter ones. She had seen their blood glisten on her sword. She had sat with her comrades while they sang and while they spoke of the women left behind … and while they died.

He folded his arms across his chest, but she met his brown eyes steadily. Colonel Carruthers had graciously told her that he was honored to arrange for her to stay with the captain who had been his aide-de-camp during the English campaign that ended in Paris. She tried to imagine this handsome man who wore velvet and lawn covered with the filth of battle.

She lowered her eyes when she realized she could, with ease, envision him fighting. The fervor in his ebony eyes warned he would be a ferocious opponent who would seek any flaw and exploit it to destroy her. Fighting him with no weapon other than her fists would be stupid. He had already proven he was stronger than she was, even if she could not have guessed that from his broad shoulders and strong hands. There were other ways, and she would use any form of guile to defeat him.

Edging around him, she vowed to give him no chance to best her, although he had discovered her greatest weakness. She could not trust him. She could trust no one but Petr Zass. She would not allow Lord Ashcroft to betray her when she was so close to getting what she needed to rebuild all that had been destroyed by the French.

Again he stepped in front of her. A frigid smile erased all civility from his face. The pleasant host had vanished; the savage warrior had appeared.

Squaring her shoulders, she faced him without speaking. She knew well how to deal with soldiers. Their brains usually worked in a certain, logical way she found admirable. If she could appeal to that part of him, he might be willing to forget he had seen her like this.

His finger brushed the curve of her jaw, and she flinched in spite of herself. Her breath caught, shocking her, as sweet warmth spread through her to submerge her anger. She did not want her anger smothered. This single touch should not affect her so. She leaned her face away from him, knowing this reaction, delightful though it might be, was a warning he would not be as easy to deal with as the men she had commanded. Yet, she must be as unrelentingly strong as she had been with them.

“Marshall, I—”

“I think it would be wiser if you called me Lord Ashcroft. Under the circumstances, informality might not be the wisest course.”

“As you wish.”

“I doubt you are always so compliant.” His smile broadened.

“You are my host.”

“And you are no
Count
Dmitrieff!”

Natalya took a step toward her left and her small knife which she had placed on a table on the far side of the room. He countered and put his hand on the tester pole at the foot of the bed. The only way she could get past him was to sneak beneath his arm. She would—if she must—but she wished to hold onto whatever dignity she had remaining.

“You are wrong, my lord. I
am
Count Dmitrieff.”

“A captain in the czar's army?”

“As Kapitán Dmitrieff, I led one of his most decorated troops. We Cossacks do not like to lose.” She hoped he would take that as a portent of the trouble he could bring upon himself if he continued this conversation.

He did not, for he asked, “Was the czar so desperate for soldiers that he forced women into his army?”

“I volunteered!”

“As a carpet-knight, no doubt.”

Baffled, she said, “
Ya ne ponimáyu
.”

“You said that before. You don't understand?”

She smiled slightly. “You apparently understand better than I, for that is what I said. What is a carpet-knight?”

“Allow me the honor of explaining.” His sarcasm lashed her, stealing her smile. “A carpet-knight is any soldier whose battles are fought in a parlor.”

She tapped a ribbon pinned beneath the fur collar of her uniform. “The czar does not award decorations to the best dancer. I earned the title of hero, my lord.”

“And you were made an officer just like that?”

Her voice was as hard as the steel in her ceremonial sword on the carved blanket chest at the foot of the ornate bed. “I was no
portupej-junker
.”

“What?”

“A cadet who is waiting to better his skills to become an officer.” She could not help smiling when she saw his astonishment as she added, “I was breveted immediately to my rank.”

He laughed as he sat on a chair covered in red velvet and set his feet on a tufted stool. Folding his arms on his chest, he gave her a superior smile. “So, you simply walked up to a Russian officer and offered your services?”

Natalya knew her cheeks were afire, turning them the shade of the wool of her coat. His insult was clear. She had been no camp-follower, but a respected officer who had won decorations and the czar's attention for her valor.

“Yes, my lord, but you must understand that my services consisted only of a strong arm and the ability to maintain my seat during a battle as well as being able to inspire my men to deeds of greatness.”

“Then the Russians are bigger blocks than I had thought.” Not giving her a chance to respond to his double insult, he went on, “I cannot conceive of what would make a young woman search out the war, so she could play a part in it.”

“I did not need to search for it. The war found me.” A deep sigh punctuated her words as she slowly sat on the chest. Twisting the fringe on her sword about her fingers, she said softly, “My father and my older brother joined the czar's men to battle in Prussia against the French. Dmitri came back. Father did not. Then the French came to Russia.”

“And your brother went again to fight?”

“Yes.” For the first time, she looked at him directly. No sympathy eased the hard lines of his face, but the derision was gone. “When he did not come back, we tried to manage as well as we could until the French overran our home. My mother, my younger brothers, and my sisters died. I did not. It was my duty to avenge their deaths.” She touched the scabbard. “
This
was my way of doing it.”

“Where is your older brother?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged, although she was sure the weight of a cannon sat on her shoulders. “I have to assume he is dead.”

“So you took over his life?”

“Yes.”

“And Zass?”

“He served in my father's household. He and I are the sole survivors of the attack on our lands by the French. I can assure you that he shared my determination to let our swords taste the blood of those who killed our families.” Her smile returned. “I would warn you, my lord, not to underestimate Petr Zass. He may be a peasant by birth, but he has proven his worth more times than you can count.”

Lord Ashcroft pyramided his fingers in front of his face, concealing it in shadow. “Does he know you are a woman?”

“Yes, of course. He served my father for many years. He taught me to shoot when I was a child.”

“He is the only one who knows the truth?”

“Until now, yes.”

When Lord Ashcroft did not reply, Natalya stood. She was careful to keep the coverlet around her shoulders. The comparative informality of civilian life had betrayed her, because she had been accustomed to the ways of the army. No one would have entered her tent without knocking first, which always gave her a chance to hide the truth. As she crossed the rug, which was roughly pliable beneath her bare feet, she realized she had become soft on the journey from Russia. During the campaign against the French, she had slept in her uncomfortable uniform so she was ready at all times to answer the call to arms.

A shadow climbed up the wall in front of her, and she slowly turned to face Lord Ashcroft. With his shirt open at the throat, the robust muscles of his chest moved smoothly as he walked toward her. Her fingers closed into fists at her sides. To defend herself … or to keep from touching him?

“You are lying,” he said in a low rumble. “I have no idea what you have planned, but I shall not be a part of it.”

“I can assure you, my lord, I am speaking the truth.”

“Count—” He swore under his breath, then said, “Miss Dmitrieff—”

“You may address me as
Kapitán
Dmitrieff. That is, unquestionably, the truth.”

With a sharp laugh, he said, “I shall call you what I please. You said your name is Natalya, right?”

“I would prefer—”

“Natalya, I want to know the truth.” He put out his hand, but she backed away, shocking herself.

She had never been frightened like this. So many times, she had looked death in the face, and never had she shied away as she did now. She did not know how to fight this kind of battle. The wisest thing would be retreat until she could gather her wits, like a shield, about her.

“I wish to retire, if you would give me leave,” she said, as she walked to the door. Opening it, she went on, “Good evening, my lord.”

He started to speak, then seemed to think better of it. When he walked toward the door, his steps pounding out his frustration, she stepped back to give him room to depart. A terrifying thought struck her, and she grasped his sleeve as he would have walked past her.

“Lord Ashcroft, you must tell no one what you have discovered.” She hated the pleading sound of her voice, but she had to win this promise from him.

“Lying is abhorrent to me.”

“It is necessary to me.”

“That is where we differ.” He caught her by the elbows and tugged her away from the door, closing it. He pulled her against him.

Natalya could not halt the shriek that burst from her throat. As Lord Ashcroft released her, astonishment on his face, the door crashed open. She whirled to see Petr Zass's face alter into fury. He leapt toward Lord Ashcroft.

“
Nyet
!” Natalya's order stopped him with his hands on Lord Ashcroft's throat. She motioned for him to release the astonished Englishman. Stepping between the two men, she said in Russian, “Petr, let me deal with this in my own way.”

Petr looked from Lord Ashcroft, who was rubbing his neck, to her, and she saw his bafflement. She understood, for she had asked Petr to help her conceal the truth that, until tonight, only the two of them had known. It was an oath he had taken at the same time he vowed to kill the French who had murdered his family.

“Yes, Kapitán,” he replied in the same language, but disappointment was jagged in his voice. He ground his fist into his palm and stared at Lord Ashcroft, then asked, “Do you want me to stay?”