What Happens in London (26 page)

Voices, too. In Russian. They sounded urgent. Angry.

They wouldn’t hurt her, would they? She was too valuable. She was to be ransomed to Prince Alexei, and—

And what if Prince Alexei had said good riddance? He was no longer courting her. And he knew that she was smitten with Harry. What if he felt spurned? What if he felt vengeful?

She scooted back on the bed, cowering in the corner. It would be so nice to be brave, to face whatever was coming with a curl of the lip and flip of the hair, but she was no Marie Antoinette, dressing in white for a beheading, regally begging the pardon of her executioner when she accidentally stepped on his foot.

No, she was Olivia Bevelstoke, and she did not want to die with dignity. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to feel this awful terror, clawing at her gut.

Someone started pounding on the door—hard, rhythmic, and brutal.

Olivia started to shake. She curled into the tiniest ball she could manage, burying her head between her knees.
Please please please
, she chanted in her head, over and over. She thought of Harry, of her family, of—

The wooden door began to splinter.

Olivia prayed she would not lose control.

And then it all came crashing in.

She screamed, the sound ripping from the back of her throat. It felt as if the gag was clawing at her tongue, as if a puff of dry, scorching air was whipping through her windpipe.

And then someone said her name.

The air was obscured by dust and darkness, and all
she could see was the massive figure of a man moving toward her.

“Lady Olivia.” The man’s voice was gruff and deep. And accented. “Are you hurt?”

It was Vladimir, Prince Alexei’s hulking and usually silent manservant. Suddenly all she could think of was the way he’d yanked and twisted on Sebastian Grey’s arm, and oh dear God, if he could do that, he could break her right in two, and—

“Let me help you,” he said.

He spoke English? Since when had he spoken English?

“Lady Olivia?” he repeated, his deep voice barely a grunt. He pulled out a knife, and she cringed, but he just brought it to the back of her gag and sliced through it.

She coughed and choked, barely hearing him as he shouted something in Russian again.

Someone replied, also in Russian, and she heard footsteps…running…coming closer…and then—

Harry
?

“Olivia!” he cried, running toward her.

Vladimir said something to him—
in Russian
—and Harry gave a curt reply.

Also in Russian.

She stared at both of them in shock. What was happening? Why was Vladimir speaking in English?

Why was Harry speaking in Russian?

“Olivia, thank God!” Harry said, his hands cupping her face. “Tell me you haven’t been hurt. Please, tell me what happened?”

But she couldn’t move, could barely even think.
When he’d spoken in Russian—it was as if he had been an entirely different person. His voice had been different, and his
face
had been different, the mouth and the muscles moving in a completely different way.

She shrank from his touch. Did she know him? Did she even know him? He’d told her that his father had been a drunk, that his grandmother had brought him up—had any of that been true?

What had she done? Oh dear Lord, she had given herself to someone she did not know, could not trust.

Vladimir handed something to Harry, who nodded and said something else in Russian.

Olivia tried to back away, but she was already at the wall. She was breathing fast, and she was cornered, and she didn’t want to be here, not with this man who wasn’t Harry, and—

“Hold still,” he said, and then he raised a knife.

Olivia looked up, saw the glint of metal as it came toward her, and screamed.

It was a sound Harry never wanted to hear again.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said to her, trying to sound as calm and reassuring as possible. His hands were steady as he cut through her bindings, but on the inside, he was still shaking.

He’d known he loved her. He’d known he needed her, couldn’t possibly be happy without her. But until that moment, he hadn’t understood the breadth of it, the depth of it, the absolute knowledge that without her, he was nothing.

And then her scream, her fear…of
him
.

He’d nearly choked on the anguish of it.

He freed her ankles first, then her wrists, but as
he reached out to comfort her, she made an almost inhuman sound, and leaped off the bed. She moved so quickly he wasn’t able to stop her, and then, when she hit the floor—her feet must have been burning with pins and needles—her knees buckled, and she tumbled to the floor.

Dear God, she was terrified of him. Of
him
. What had they said to her? What had they done to her?

“Olivia,” he said cautiously, and he reached out to her, keeping his movements slow and even.

“Don’t touch me,” she whimpered. She tried to crawl away, dragging her useless feet behind her.

“Olivia, let me help you.”

But it was as if she did not hear him.

“We need to go,” Vladimir said, saying the words in gruff Russian.

Harry didn’t even bother to look at him as he insisted on another minute, the Russian words rolling off his tongue without a thought.

Olivia’s eyes widened, and she looked frantically toward the door, clearly intending to make a break for it.

“I should have told you,” Harry said, suddenly realizing the cause of her panic. “My grandmother was Russian. It was all she spoke to me when I was a child. It was why—”

“We do not have time for explanations,” Vladimir said harshly. “Lady Olivia, we must go
now
.”

She must have responded to the authority in his voice, because she nodded and, still looking unsteady and scared, allowed Harry to help her to her feet.

“I will explain everything soon,” he told her. “I promise you.”

“How did you find me?” she whispered.

He looked down at her as they hurried from the room. Her eyes had changed; she still looked shaken, but he could see
her
again in their depths. Before, there had been nothing but terror.

“We heard your noise,” Vladimir said, holding his gun at the ready as he checked around a corner. “That was very fortunate of you. Possibly very foolish, too. But it is good that you did it.”

Olivia nodded, and then, to Harry, she said, “Why is he speaking English?”

“He is a bit more than a bodyguard,” Harry said, hoping that would be enough for now. It wasn’t the time to unravel the entire story.

“Come,” Vladimir said, motioning for them to follow.

“Who is he?” Olivia whispered.

“I really couldn’t say,” Harry replied.

“You will never see me again,” Vladimir said, almost offhandedly.

As much as Harry was beginning to like and respect the man, he fervently hoped that was true. This was
it
. When they got out of here, he was giving notice at the War Department. He would marry Olivia, they’d move out to Hampshire and have a passel of little multilingual babies, and he’d sit at his desk every day doing nothing more exotic than adding numbers in a ledger.

He liked boring. He
craved
boring.

But boring, unfortunately, was not to be the watchword of the rest of the evening…

B
y the time they reached the ground floor, the feeling had returned to Olivia’s feet, and she didn’t have to lean quite so hard on Harry.

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

She was still in a panic, heart racing and blood pounding, and she didn’t understand why he was speaking Russian or holding a gun, and she wasn’t sure if she should trust him, and even worse, she didn’t know if she could trust
herself
, because she feared she might have fallen in love with a mirage, a man who didn’t even exist.

But still, she didn’t let go of his hand. It was, in that terrifying moment, the one true thing in her life.

“This way,” Vladimir said curtly, leading the way. They were heading to the ambassador’s office, where her parents waited. They still had a way to go, or so Olivia assumed from the silence in the halls. When
she could hear the hum of the party, then she would know that she was close.

But they were not moving quickly. At every corner, and at the top and bottom of each staircase Vladimir would stop, placing one finger to his lips as he pressed himself against the wall and peered carefully around the corner. And every time, Harry followed suit, pushing her behind him, guarding her with his body.

Olivia understood the need for caution, but she felt as if something inside of her were about to burst, and she just wanted to break free and run, to feel the air whistling past her face as she flew through the halls.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted her mother.

She wanted to take off this dress and burn it, to wash herself, to drink something sweet or sour or minty—whatever would most quickly wipe the taste of fear from her mouth.

She wanted to curl up in her bed, and pull the pillow over her head—she didn’t want to think about any of this. She wanted, for once in her life, to be
in
curious. Maybe tomorrow she’d want all of the whys and wherefores, but for right now, she just wanted to close her eyes.

And hold Harry’s hand.

“Olivia.”

She looked over at him, and it was only then that she realized that she
had
closed her eyes. And nearly lost her balance.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t. But she thought
she might be all right
enough
. Enough for this night, for whatever it was she needed to do.

“Can you do this?” he asked.

“I have to.” Because, really, what other choice did she have?

He squeezed her hand.

She swallowed, looking down at where they touched, his skin against hers. His grip was warm, almost hot, and she wondered if her fingers felt like sharp little icicles in his palm.

“It’s not much farther,” he assured her.

Why were you speaking Russian?

The words hovered on her lips, almost tumbled out. But she caught them, held them inside. This wasn’t the time to ask questions. She had to focus on what she was doing, what
he
was doing for her. The ambassador’s residence was enormous, and she’d been unconscious when she’d been brought to her little upstairs room. She couldn’t find her way back to the ballroom herself, could she—at least not without getting lost along the way?

She had to have faith that he would deliver her to safety. She had no choice.

She had to trust him.

She had to.

Then she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since he and Vladimir had rescued her. The strange gauzy fog that had washed over her began to lift, and she realized that her mind was finally clear. Or rather, she thought with a funny, rueful little twitch of her lips, it was clear enough.

Clear enough to know that she did trust him.

It wasn’t because she had to. It was simply because she did. Because she loved him. And maybe she didn’t know why he hadn’t told her he spoke Russian, but she knew
him
. When she looked at his face, she saw him reading from
Miss Butterworth
, scolding her for interrupting. She saw him sitting in her drawing room, insisting that she needed protection from the prince.

She saw him smiling.

She saw him laughing.

And she saw his eyes, open to his soul, as he told her he loved her.

“I trust you,” she whispered. He didn’t hear her, but it didn’t matter. She hadn’t said the words for him.

She’d said them for herself.

Harry had forgotten just how much he hated this. He’d fought in enough battles to know that some men thrived on danger. And he’d fought in more than enough to know that he was not one of them.

He could keep his head, act with calm and rational intent, but afterward, when safety had settled around him like a shroud, he began to shake. His breath came faster and faster, and more than once, he’d lost his belly.

He didn’t like fear.

And never in his life had he been more afraid.

The men who had taken Olivia were ruthless, or so Vladimir had told him when they were searching for her. They had served the ambassador for years and had been amply rewarded for their misdeeds. They were loyal and violent—a terrifying combination. The only consolation was that they were unlikely to
hurt Olivia if they thought she was of value to Prince Alexei. But now that she had escaped, who knew how they might judge her? They might consider her soiled goods, completely expendable.

“It is not much farther now,” Vladimir said in Russian as they reached the bottom of the stairs. They had only to make it down the long gallery and over to the public section of the house. Once there, they would be safe. The party was still in full swing, and no one would dare attempt violence with several hundred of England’s most prominent citizens as witnesses.

“It’s not much farther,” Harry whispered to Olivia. Her hands were like ice, but she seemed to have regained most of her spirit.

Vladimir edged forward. They had taken the service stairs, which, unfortunately, ended at a closed door. He pressed his ear against the wood and listened.

Harry tugged Olivia closer.

“Now,” Vladimir said quietly. He opened the door very slowly, stepped out, then motioned for them to follow.

Harry took a step out, and then another, Olivia one pace behind.

“Quickly now,” Vladimir whispered.

They moved swiftly, silently, keeping to the walls, and then—

Crack!

Harry pulled hard on Olivia’s hand, his first instinct to shove her to safety, but there was nowhere, no shelter, no refuge. There was nothing but the wide-open hallway, and someone, somewhere, with a gun.

“Run!” Vladimir shouted.

Harry let go of Olivia’s hand—she’d be able to run faster with both arms free—and he yelled, “Go!”

And they ran. They tore down the hallway, skidding around the corner after Vladimir. From behind them, a voice shouted in Russian, ordering them to stop.

“Keep going!” Harry yelled to Olivia. Another shot rang out, and this one came close, slicing the air near Harry’s shoulder.

Or maybe it sliced his shoulder. He couldn’t tell.

“This way!” Vladimir ordered, and they followed him around another corner, and then down a hall. The shots had stopped, and there were no more footsteps racing behind them, and then, somehow, they were all tumbling into the ambassador’s office.

“Olivia!” her mother shrieked, and Harry watched as they embraced, as Olivia, who had not shed a tear, at least not one that he’d seen, collapsed in her mother’s arms, weeping.

Harry leaned against the wall. He felt dizzy.

“Are you all right?”

Harry blinked. It was Prince Alexei, looking at him with concern.

“You’re bleeding.”

Harry looked down. He was holding his shoulder. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing that. He lifted his hand and looked down at the blood. Strange, it didn’t hurt. Maybe that was someone else’s shoulder.

His knees buckled.

“Harry!”

And then…it wasn’t blackness, really. Why did everyone say things went to black when one fainted? This was red. Or maybe green.

Or maybe…

Two days later

Experiences I Hope Never to Repeat

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Olivia paused in her thoughts as she took a sip of tea, sent up to her bedroom along with a large plate of biscuits by her concerned parents. Really, where did one start with a list such as that? There was the being rendered unconscious (apparently with some sort of drug-soaked cloth to the mouth, she had later learned). And one could not forget the gag, or the tied ankles, or the tied hands.

Oh, and she could not leave off being fed steaming hot tea by the very same man responsible for all of the above. That one had been more of an affront to her dignity than anything else, but it would be rather high up the list.

Olivia was fond of her dignity.

Let’s see, what else…Being eye-and ear-witness to a door being kicked down. She had not enjoyed that. The expressions on her parents’ faces when she was finally brought back to their care—there had been relief, that was true, but that sort of relief required commensurate terror, and Olivia did not want anyone she loved to feel that way ever again.

And then, dear God, this had been the worst: watching Harry as he’d slumped to the floor of the ambassador’s office. She hadn’t realized that he’d been shot. How could she not have realized that? She’d been so busy sobbing in her mother’s arms,
she hadn’t seen that he’d gone deathly pale, or that he was clutching his shoulder.

She’d thought she’d been afraid before, but nothing—nothing—could have compared to the terror of those thirty seconds between the time he went down and Vladimir assured her it was nothing but a flesh wound.

And indeed, that was all it was. True to Vladimir’s word, Harry was up and about the very next day. He’d arrived at her home while she was eating breakfast, and then he explained everything—why he hadn’t told her he could speak Russian, what he’d really been doing at his desk when she had spied upon him, even why he had called upon her with
Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron
that first crazy, wonderful afternoon. It hadn’t been to be neighborly, or because he had had any feelings for her other than disdain. He had been
ordered
to do so. By no less an authority than the War Office.

It was a lot to take in over coddled eggs and tea.

But she’d listened, and she’d understood. And now everything was settled, every loose end neatly tied. The ambassador had been detained, as had the men who worked for him, including her gray-haired captor. Prince Alexei had sent over a formal letter of apology, on behalf of the entire Russian nation, and Vladimir, true to his word, had disappeared.

And yet she hadn’t seen Harry in over twenty-four hours. He had left after breakfast, and she’d assumed he’d call again, but…

Nothing.

She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t even concerned. But it was odd. Quite odd.

She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on its saucer. Then she picked up both dishes and set them atop
Miss Butterworth
. Because she kept reaching for the book.

And she didn’t want to pick it up. Not without Harry.

She hadn’t finished the newspaper yet, anyway. She’d read the last half of it, and was rather interested in getting on to the more serious news at the front. There had been rumors that Monsieur Bonaparte was in exceedingly ill health. She supposed he couldn’t have actually died yet; that would have been reported on the front page, with a headline prominent enough that she couldn’t have missed it.

Still, there might be something of note, so she picked up the paper again, and had just found an article to read when she heard a knock on the door.

It was Huntley, carrying a small piece of paper. When he approached, she realized it was actually a card, folded in thirds and sealed at the center with dark blue wax. She murmured her thanks, examining the seal while the butler left the room. It was quite simple: just a V, in a rather elegant script, starting with a swirl and then finishing with a flourish.

She slid her finger underneath and loosened the wax, carefully unfolding the card.

Come to your window.

That was all. Just one sentence. She smiled, looking down at the words for a few seconds more before sliding herself to the edge of her bed. She hopped down, her feet lightly hitting the floor, but she paused for a few seconds before crossing the room.
She needed to wait. She wanted to stand here and savor this moment because…

Because
he
had made it. Harry had created the moment. And she loved him.

Come to your window.

She found herself grinning, almost giggling. She didn’t ordinarily like being ordered about, but in this case it was delightful.

She walked to the window and pulled her curtains open. She could see him through the glass, standing in his own window, waiting for her.

She pushed her window open.

“Good morning,” Harry said. He looked very solemn. Or rather, his mouth looked solemn. His eyes looked like they were up to something.

She felt her own eyes begin to twinkle. Wasn’t that odd? That she could feel it. “Good morning,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I think I needed time to rest.”

He nodded. “One needs time after a shock.”

“You are speaking from experience?” she asked. But she needn’t have done so; from his expression she knew that he was.

“When I was in the army.”

It was funny. Their conversation was simple, but it wasn’t flat. They weren’t awkward; they were merely warming up.

And Olivia was already feeling the first tingles of anticipation.

“I bought another copy of
Miss Butterworth
,” he said.

“You did?” She leaned on the ledge. “Did you finish it?”

“Indeed.”

“Does it get any better?”

“Well, she does go into surprising detail about the pigeons.”

“No
.” Good heavens, she
was
going to finish that wretched novel. If the author actually showed the death by pigeons…well now, that was worth her time.