Wolff wasn’t there when she awoke, but Anya couldn’t recall him leaving during the night. Pale light filtered through the window, and she realized it was only just past dawn.
What was she to make of his absence? Should she be insulted? Grateful? Relieved?
A sliver of apprehension wormed its way into her belly. Last night, it had been so easy to lose herself in the moment, to forget that morning would come. But she’d have to face Wolff sooner or later. Would he treat her differently today? Would he carry on as if nothing had happened?
She needed to think, to consider all the ramifications, but she couldn’t do it here, not with the scent of him on the sheets and the memory of his kisses still fresh on her skin. Just the thought of him scrambled her brain. She would go to the stables. The unjudgmental presence of the horses would be a welcome comfort.
She tugged on the breeches and shirt she’d worn to the park, then slipped down the stairs and let herself out into the mews yard without encountering anyone. The grey, Borodino, tossed his head and whickered in greeting, and she stroked his velvety nose.
“It’s all right,” she crooned. “Whatever horrors you’ve seen, they’re behind you now. You’re safe here.”
Her heart contracted sharply. The horse was lucky indeed to have been rescued by such a kind-hearted man. Sebastien had provided a safe haven for the traumatized animal. He must have seen equally dreadful things himself during the war. Did he, as many soldiers did, experience nightmares that plunged him right back into the hell of battle? Who did he have to comfort him?
With a jolt, Anya realized she wanted it to be her. She wanted to make him laugh in honest enjoyment, to be the one he came to when he couldn’t sleep. She wanted to be his friend and his confidante. The one who lightened his days and eased his nights.
She felt more for him than mere liking. More than simple lust. She understood him, with a soul-deep recognition. It was far too easy to imagine herself living here at the Tricorn, becoming a permanent part of his world.
It could never happen, of course. He saw her as nothing more than a temporary diversion, and surely Vasili wouldn’t be staying in London for much longer. She had a few weeks, at most, to enjoy being with Wolff before she’d have to return to Covent Garden and slip back into her dreary life.
A shuffling step in the straw made her turn, expecting the stable lad, but a larger figure entered the barn. He looked vaguely familiar, and Anya’s stomach dropped in sudden dismay as she placed him: the third kidnapper from Hounslow Heath, the one who’d ridden away.
He smiled as he advanced, showing several missing teeth. “Good morning, Princess,” he said in Russian. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Anya backed up, cornered. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
His smile was ugly. “You know what I’m doing here. Count Petrov is most anxious to see you, little dove.” His gaze flicked lasciviously over her body, immodestly displayed in the shirt and breeches.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She sidestepped and snatched a leather lead rein from a nail on the wall, brandishing it in front of her like a whip.
Eclipse whinnied and kicked his hooves against his door in the next stall, picking up on the tension in the air, but the placid Borodino paid them no attention. He was used to people flailing and arguing near him.
“You were fortunate to receive help before.” The man’s lip curled in a sneer. “Your savior killed my brother and my friend. But this time, you won’t be so lucky. Count Petrov does not take kindly to those who fail him.”
Anya swung the leather, trying to hit him in the face, but he blocked the move with his forearm and caught the strap in his fist. He yanked her toward him and she stumbled, falling to her knees in the straw, and when she opened her mouth to scream, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard enough to make her eyes water. She gasped in pain. He clapped a dirty palm over her mouth so she bit him, hard, and he swore as she twisted and thrashed.
She managed to let out a panicked shout. “Help! Sebastien!”
Eclipse reared again and let out the equine version of an enraged roar. His hooves thundered furiously against the wooden boards as he tried to get to Anya.
Anya tried to remember the advice she’d been given. She aimed for the man’s nose, tried to elbow him between the legs, but he managed to evade all her attempts. He caught her around the waist and dragged her toward the stable entrance.
The back door banged, and she gasped in relief when both Sebastien and Mickey burst into the mews yard and skidded to a halt on the cobbles.
“Take your hands off her this instant,” Wolff commanded.
The deadly calm of his voice should have been an indication to the man holding her to run. Unfortunately, the simpleton didn’t take the hint. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her throat. Anya froze.
“No. The printsessa comes with me.”
Her heart missed a beat. For one brief, hopeful moment she thought Wolff wouldn’t register the Russian word for princess, but of course he missed nothing. His eyes narrowed.
“Princess? What are you talking about?”
“Princess Denisova,” the man repeated. “She comes with me.”
Wolff actually smiled at what he thought was the other man’s mistake. “I hate to break it to you, old man, but you’ve got the wrong girl. That’s not the princess. That’s her maid. Anya Ivanov.”
Her captor let out a belly laugh of genuine amusement. “A maid? Is that what she’s told you? By the saints! I can see why you would think it, with her dressed in these clothes like a common whore, but I make no mistake. This is Princess Anastasia Denisova. Cousin to the tsar.”
Anya stared at Wolff, mutely pleading with him to dismiss the claim, but the look he sent her dashed any hope. She saw the exact moment he drew the correct conclusion. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened in fury.
“Princess Anastasia Denisova,” he repeated, and the name was like an accusation on his lips, practically dripping with disdain.
He returned his attention to the man holding her. “Put the knife down and let her go. I don’t want to have to hurt you. Go and tell your master the princess is under my protection.”
The knife pressed more firmly to her throat and her captor’s arm squeezed her belly in warning. “I’ll cut her.”
“No, you won’t. Petrov won’t want her harmed.”
“Step back, Englishman.”
Anya wasn’t sure what happened next. Wolff’s hand shot out and caught her assailant’s wrist, forcing the knife away from her. The arm holding her waist slackened, and she stumbled forward into Mickey’s beefy arms.
She turned to see the Russian slash the knife in a wild arc toward Wolff, who ducked and then dealt the man a punishing blow to the temple and another to the underside of his jaw. The knife clattered to the ground, but the big Russian wasn’t beaten. He put up his fists in a boxing stance and the two men traded jabs. Wolff managed to land a hit on the side of his head, but received a punishing left to the cheekbone in return. He staggered, but didn’t go down.
Then the Russian changed tactics and lunged forward, catching Wolff around the waist in a bear hug and hurling them both to the ground. The two of them rolled over and over, fists and curses flying, and Anya had to stop herself from crying out in dismay at the ferocity of the attack.
Wolff finally ended up on top of the larger man. He straddled his body and delivered a barrage of brutal punches to the man’s face. The man’s nose broke with a sickening crunch, and he finally went limp. Panting, Wolff unfisted his grip on the man’s shirt and let the body drop back onto the cobbles. With a final curse, he stood and brushed down the front of his shirt, now smeared with blood and dirt.
Mickey gave a grunt of congratulation, then straightened Anya and, with his giant paws, dusted off the straw sticking to her back.
Wolff turned to her and the look of fury on his face was enough to make her chest squeeze in fright. He looked wild. Utterly ferocious, with his hair a disordered mess and his cheekbone already turning an ugly shade of scarlet from the blow he’d received.
He crouched down to inspect the unconscious man’s outstretched hand. A gold signet ring glinted in the pale morning light. “The Orlov family crest,” he said grimly. “Just like the dead man down at the docks.” He stood and dusted his hands.
“The Orlovs have been allies of the Petrovs for centuries,” Anya said quietly.
Sebastien ignored her. “Mickey. Take this idiot over to Bow Street and lock him up.” His eyes flashed back to Anya and her heart missed another beat. “And you?” he bit out. “My study. Right now.”
He turned and stalked away, fury evident in every long stride.
Anya gulped. For a cowardly minute, she imagined leaping up onto Borodino and galloping back to the dowager duchess, but that would only delay the inevitable confrontation.
“Better go, miss,” Mickey said gently. “’E don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Anya nodded glumly. Now there would be hell to pay.