“Anya, my dear, what a pleasant surprise.” Grandmère extended her hand to draw Anya closer. “However did you get here?”
Her question echoed Dimitri’s. The last person he had expected to encounter in America was Anya Ivanova, the woman who would be his wife.
“Once I heard of your injury and the delay in your return, I could not bear to be parted from everyone any longer.” Anya pressed a kiss on Grandmère’s cheek. “I have missed you.” Anya glanced back at Dimitri and Alexi. “And my princes.”
“You traveled here alone?” Dimitri found it difficult enough to believe she was here. Had she thrown protocol aside as well?
“Most certainly not. Count Gurieli and his wife accompanied me.” She sat beside Grandmère on the bed, every bit as relaxed as Cynda when she sat there.
Dimitri chanced a glance at Cynda. He had insisted she accompany them, but her pale face gave evidence of her unease. A part of him longed to draw her into his embrace, to soothe her fears, while the responsible side realized he could no longer evade his duties.
“And you risked your life to come here?” Alexi advanced on Anya, his eyes blazing. “We chose not to return because of the dangerous winter sea, and yet you came?”
Anya gave him a gentle smile and placed her hand on his arm. “Dear Alexi, I have been in America for almost a month, but I was obligated to allow the count to conduct his business first.” A gleam of mischief appeared in her brown eyes, reminding Dimitri of the young girl she had once been. “How kind of you to worry about me.”
Alexi’s smile was rueful. “I never stop worrying. I know your penchant for disaster.”
Her laughter was light, airy, cultured, different from the fullness of Cynda’s. “I am grown now and far past disasters.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Anya wrinkled her nose at him, then glanced at Dimitri. “You have been very quiet. Are you angry with me, too?”
Not angry, but stunned. “Of course not. I do not think it was wise to come here, but as you arrived safely, how can I complain?”
Anya smiled. “Ever the diplomat.”
Dimitri cast a glance at Cynda in time to see the dry twist of her lips. Apparently, she didn’t agree with that statement.
“You will join us for supper,” Grandmère said. “Dimitri, please notify the kitchen that we will have one more.”
He nodded, but before he could leave to comply, Cynda stepped forward. “Miss Ivanova can take my place. I’ll be glad to eat dinner elsewhere.”
“Nonsense. Your company is appreciated as well.” Grandmère nodded at Dimitri, and he left to make the change, resisting the urge to touch Cynda as he passed.
The meal was lively with Alexi and Anya providing much of the conversation. Cynda was very quiet, but she watched closely, obviously absorbing all she could about Anya.
Anya was much as Dimitri remembered her from a year ago, though she displayed far more poise now. When with him, she had always seemed afraid, but in this group, she shone.
Until she focused on Cynda.
“And you are the artist?” Anya asked.
“Yes, I’m painting Dimitri’s portrait.”
Sitting beside Cynda, Dimitri sensed her tension. If only he could reassure her, touch her.
“How wonderful. I shall have to see it.” Anya sipped at her wine, then met Dimitri’s gaze, apparent innocence in hers. “How American of you to allow your servant to dine with you. I trust your father is not aware of this.”
Cynda abruptly pushed back her chair. “Excuse me. I’ve lost my appetite.” Her words were cold. She left quickly before Grandmère could stop her, and Dimitri frowned at Anya.
“That was inexcusable,” he said.
“It was?”
Dimitri studied her. How much of this innocence was real and how much was a carefully cultured performance? “Cynda is our guest at meals.”
“She is a servant.” Anya spoke matter-of-factly. “You have always thought little of them yourself, which is why I am so surprised you are permitting this one such liberties.”
“Cynda is more than a servant.” Dimitri rose to his feet, struggling to contain his rising anger. “She is a talented artist and has been accepted by Grandmère and Alexi.”
Anya looked at Grandmère, who nodded. “Then, I am truly sorry. I did not mean any offense.”
Alexi touched her shoulder. “I know you didn’t.”
Yes, she had meant offense. Anya had meant to put Cynda in her place, to remind her of the difference in their positions. Not so long ago, he would have done the same thing.
But that was before he had met Cynda.
“Please sit, Dimitri, and finish your meal. Anya can make her apologies to Cynda later.” Grandmère motioned him to his chair.
Feeling like a chastised child, he resumed his seat, but his appetite had fled as well.
“I do hope to see more of this village while I am here.” Anya smiled at Dimitri. “Can I rely on you to escort me? As your intended, I should not need Countess Gurieli as a chaperone.”
“I am afraid I will be busy with the rebuilding of the boardinghouse.” He much preferred that to accompanying Anya to every shop in Hope Springs. “Alexi can take you.”
“Surely you do not need to continue with such manual labor?”
“I enjoy the work.” Dimitri held Anya’s gaze until she looked away. “And I have promised to help.”
“I will be honored to escort you, Anya,” Alexi said quickly. “And Countess Gurieli as well, if necessary.”
Anya gave Alexi a brilliant smile. “Thank you. I shall look forward to it.”
She continued to discuss her trip across the ocean and her time in New York City, but Dimitri found his mind wandering to Cynda. If Anya had not been here, he would have gone to her, comforted her. The day had held several surprises for them both.
But Anya was here. He would have to avoid Cynda from now on.
He sighed. He already missed her.
When a knock sounded at the door to Cynda’s suite three days later, she ran to answer it. She hadn’t seen Dimitri since Anya’s arrival, and she had missed him terribly.
But Anya stood outside the door, dressed to perfection in a gown that had obviously been tailored for her. “I have come to watch you paint,” she said, entering the room. She stood before the portrait, studying it. “It is a fair likeness.”
She glanced around the room, focusing on the book beside the chair where Cynda had been reading. “Are you not working? I assumed that was what you did during the day.” Her tone implied the night was better not discussed.
Good thing, too. She might be surprised at what Cynda could tell her.
“I was taking a break.”
“I believe Dimitri sponsors you, feeds you. Would he be willing to do so if he knew you were not painting?”
Guilt sliced through Cynda. Anya had a point. Dimitri did support her, at least while she worked on his portrait. And it appeared his future wife intended to ensure Cynda did work.
Though reluctant, Cynda tied on her apron and mixed her pigments. She had held off painting because the portrait was too close to done. As long as it wasn’t finished, Dimitri couldn’t die. But now she had an audience who expected her to work. “I thought you were seeing the town,” she said as she moved into position before the easel.
“I saw what little there is to this village.” Anya settled in a nearby chair as prim and proper as one of the women in Godey’s Lady’s Book. “Now Alexi has gone to help Dimitri with that boardinghouse.”
Her emphasis on the building revealed her feelings. Evidently, she couldn’t understand why the men would choose to work on the house instead of being with her. “It is an important project,” Cynda said. “They want to get it done before the end of the month.”
“I don’t see what difference a few days will make.”
“We haven’t had a heavy snow yet, though the temperature has dropped. Mrs. Zimmerman would like to be back in her own place before we do.”
“It is good they are assisting this community.” Anya sounded as though she was trying to convince herself, but Cynda nodded her agreement.
“I think Mrs. Zimmerman is ready to put Dimitri in for sainthood.” Cynda met his gaze in the portrait and grinned. Somehow, Saint Dimitri didn’t fit the simmering passion in those eyes or the way he made her feel with just a casual touch.
“Dimitri is many things, but I do not believe a saint is one of them.”
Cynda glanced at Anya. Had the woman made a joke? She wasn’t smiling. “I have to agree,” Cynda said.
Anya narrowed her eyes as if questioning Cynda’s right to know enough about Dimitri to agree. Cynda sighed. This was going to be fun—not.
Determined to ignore the woman, she painted. Lost in the pigments and canvas, she had no problem forgetting Dimitri’s intended wife sat only a few feet away.
Unfortunately, Anya decided to visit every day for the rest of the week, sitting primly in the same chair, watching Cynda with an intensity Cynda found unnerving. Was the younger woman trying to read Cynda’s thoughts, uncover all her secrets? Evidently, she suspected the attraction between Dimitri and Cynda. Was she curious as to how far it went?
Well, Cynda wasn’t telling. Dimitri would have to live with Anya for many years. They certainly didn’t need to start an arranged marriage with bitterness between them. After all, Cynda was leaving.
“I understand you were a waitress before Dimitri commissioned your painting,” Anya said abruptly.
“That’s right. It was a temporary position.” Cynda met Anya’s gaze. “Before that, I restored paintings.”
Anya stood up and walked across the room. “And once you finish with this, you will return to that?”
“Yes.” When she returned to her own time.
“Is that why you persist in making this commission take longer than it should? Look.” She paused behind Cynda and pointed at the painting. “The portrait is completed. You are doing nothing but pretty little touches.”
Cynda stared from Anya back to the painting. Dear Lord, Anya was right. It was done. By trying to keep busy in Anya’s presence, Cynda had finished it, down to the last detail. Had she just signed Dimitri’s death warrant?
“You’re right,” she murmured. “It is finished.”
“Excellent.” Anya headed for the door. “I will notify Dimitri at once. I suggest you begin packing.” She left as Cynda continued to stare at the painting. It was her best work ever. But did she dare give it to Dimitri?
The wind rattled the windowpane, and Cynda turned toward it. She needed to think, and the way she did that best was to sketch. Snaring her pad and pencil, she threw on a cloak and left the suite. She hadn’t yet done a winter sketch of the hotel. Today was a good time to do so.
And maybe the last chance she would have.
Dimitri surveyed the completed boardinghouse with satisfaction. Every board fit perfectly, inside and out. In fact, the place was better built now than originally.
He examined his dirty hands. Not the hands of a king, but of a hardworking man. That thought filled him with pride.
One of the other men stopped by to shake his hand. “Good job, Your Highness. No offense meant, but I wouldn’t have expected it.”
Dimitri grinned. “I understand. To be honest, I wasn’t certain I could do it.”
“Well, you did, and it’s a fine piece of work. In fact . . .” The man stopped, obviously hesitant to continue.
“Yes?” Dimitri offered encouragement. It had taken many days before these men relaxed around him, and he had discovered that he enjoyed their company.
“I’ve been needing to build on an extra room, for the children, you understand? Would you be willing to help me out? I can use a man with your skill.” After speaking quickly, the man waited, apprehension barely hidden on his face.
Dimitri clapped the man’s shoulder. “I would consider it an honor, Hamilton.”
Visible relief flowed through the man. “As would I.” Hamilton grinned. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready to begin.”
“That would be fine. I expect we’ll be here until spring.”
They shook hands again, but this time with a sense of kinship. Dimitri liked the feeling. Aside from Alexi, he had never shared that before.
“Dimitri.”
At hearing his name, he turned to see Anya approaching, wrapped in her fur-lined cloak. The countess was nowhere in sight. He frowned as he approached her.
“Where is your escort?” A lady did not venture out on her own.
“I could not wait for the countess.” Her face was flushed, from the cold wind, or excitement, Dimitri couldn’t tell. “Besides, I understand Miss Madison is unchaperoned most of the time.”
“That’s different.” Yet Dimitri would be hard-pressed to put the reason into words. Cynda was more independent, less frightened of the world than any woman he had met. Crossing his arms, he fixed Anya with his gaze. “And what is so important you could not wait?”
“Miss Madison has completed your portrait.” Anya announced the news with the enthusiasm of a child displaying a favorite toy.
“Has she?” Cynda had been delaying. He knew that, but he was not going to argue the point with her so long as she did not destroy the painting. “I hadn’t expected her to finish yet.”
“I am certain she would still be pretending to work on it if I had not made it my personal duty to sit with her every day and monitor her progress.” Anya acted as if she had done him a great favor.
Dimitri swallowed a laugh. Cynda had been forced to finish and endure Anya’s company as well. No doubt she wasn’t in a very good mood. “Very well. Let us go see it.”
Tucking Anya’s arm in his, he headed for the train. “Does the painting do me justice?” he asked lightly.
“Too much so.” Anya darted a glance at him from lowered lashes. “It is almost as if she knows you very well.”
“Perhaps she does.” Anya’s hint triggered his anger, rather than guilt. Her startled expression made him relent. “After all, I sat many weeks for her.”
Anya nodded and ducked back in her cloak as large snowflakes drifted from the heavy sky. “I will be glad to see her gone.”
“Gone?” Dimitri had no intention of losing Cynda.
“Yes, her commission is completed. You no longer have need of her.”
He stopped the words that leapt to his lips. He would always need Cynda. “We shall see.”
Upon reaching The Chesterfield, he went directly to Cynda’s suite. No one answered his knock, and he frowned. Where else could she be?
He glanced at Anya. “Did she say she was going anywhere?”
“No. She was here when I left.”
He rapped again, harder, but still received no reply. “Cynda?”
“I recommended she pack. Perhaps she has left already.”
Dimitri whirled on her. “You told her what? Who gave you that authority?”
Anya shrank back. “I . . . I only—”
Turning away from her, he hammered on the door, his chest tight. Cynda would not leave the resort. She had said many times that she had to be here on the twenty-first of December to return to her home in the future. He grimaced. “I will find someone to let us in.”
Anya trailed behind him as he searched for someone—a porter, a maid. Where were all the staff? Surely in a hotel of this size and prestige they should be easier to locate. At last, he spotted an employee near the main entrance.
“Rupert.” He barked the man’s name as a command, hearing the edge of worry in his voice. Dimitri drew in a deep breath before he continued. “Can you let me into Miss Madison’s suite? She doesn’t answer her door.”
“That’s because she’s not there,” Rupert said. “I saw her leave about an hour ago with her sketch pad. Drawing again, I bet.”
“Which way did she go?”
Rupert pointed to the rear of the hotel. “I don’t know where she went from there.”
“Thank you.” Dimitri gave him a generous tip, then hurried for the back entrance, Anya running to keep up.
“I am certain she will return soon,” she said. “There is no need for this fuss.”
Dimitri paused by the doorway. The snowflakes were heavier, thicker now, obliterating a view of even the nearest walking path. Snow covered the ground, growing in depth.
For a moment, Dimitri couldn’t breathe. This promised to be a bad storm, and Cynda was out in it. He had to find her.
Before he could open the door, Anya snagged his sleeve. “Where are you going?”
“I have to find Cynda.”
“Surely she can find her own way back.” Anya didn’t sound very pleased with him, but he was more concerned with Cynda’s safety.
“In that?” He pulled his arm from her hold. “I’m not willing to take that chance. Return to your room, Anya. I’ll return shortly.”
“Don’t be foolish, Dimitri. You are a crown prince. You aren’t responsible for finding her. Send someone else.” She risked touching his arm again. “What if something happens to you?”
“Don’t worry.” He gave her a dry smile. “There’s always Alexi.”
Without waiting for her response, he dashed toward the stables. He would need a horse to search in this storm. No doubt Cynda was on the mountain slope somewhere. He knew many of her habits now. When she painted, she was oblivious to the world around her. As swiftly as this storm had moved in, she would have been caught unaware.
He had to find her . . . before it was too late.
Cynda didn’t make much progress on her sketch. Her mind kept wandering. What was she going to do? Now that she had completed Dimitri’s portrait, she had no reason to stay with him.
True, he had promised to introduce her to other potential sponsors in New York, but she couldn’t leave here. Yet Anya would see to it that Dimitri sent Cynda away as soon as possible. What could she do to remain at the hotel for another three weeks?
The Major wasn’t about to give her back her job as a waitress. Once again, Cynda would be forced to search for employment and a place to live in town.
Perhaps it was just as well. The more time she spent with Dimitri, the less she wanted to leave him. And she would have to leave him.
Her time here was short, his lifespan even shorter. Before she left the hotel, she had to convince him to believe her and the very real danger to his life. He had to leave the resort—and she had to ensure that he did.
A snowflake drifted onto her page, and she watched it melt with a wistful smile, remembering how she and Dimitri had watched that unusual October snow together. Her heart ached. They would share no more days like that.
She returned to her sketch of The Chesterfield as seen from between the black, barren trees of winter. Though only in pencil, the sketch held definite possibilities.
At least, she would take that back with her—a vast improvement in her skills and the elusive ability to instill emotion into her art.
She glanced up and blinked. Where was The Chesterfield? It had disappeared behind a sheet of driven snow. Alert now, she noticed the wind howling between the trees.
Where had this come from? She gathered her stuff together quickly. She had to get back inside.
Emerging from the thick grove, she gasped as the wind beat against her with the impact of a sledgehammer. She froze in place. The surrounding area had vanished into a blur of white. Which way was the hotel?
Well, she wasn’t going to waste time trying to decide. If she remembered correctly, she needed to go right. Without hesitation, she started walking.
Her hands grew numb despite her attempts to keep them inside her cloak, and the icy wind pierced her clothing, chilling her to the bone. Her shoes, though sturdy, did little to keep her feet dry. How did people stay warm in this time period?
Cynda shivered as she plodded through the building snow. She would give anything for a down-filled jacket and ski gloves right now.
After walking for what felt like a half hour, she paused. She should have reached The Chesterfield by now. Drat.
This was not good . . . definitely not good. She needed to find shelter and soon. Already, she had lost feeling in her feet as well as her hands.
How ironic, she had always worried about saving Dimitri’s life. It had never occurred to her that her life might be in danger, too.
Or that she would die first.