Tiger’s Tale (The Tiger’s Curse #1)

2. There Are Many Fathers, but Only One Mother

2

THERE ARE MANY FATHERS, BUT ONLY ONE MOTHER

The tsarina Ludmila Marianka Sashenka Stepanov set the list of potential suitors on the side table and allowed herself the tiniest moment to ease back into the plush settee and close her eyes. Her tightly laced corset and voluminous skirts didn’t permit her to completely relax, but that was for the best anyway. It wouldn’t do to show weakness. Not even to her daughters, as much as they loved her.

As her heavy eyelids closed, she smiled, thinking of how proud her husband would have been to see the twins now. Both of them were developing into intelligent, gifted, beautiful young women. Either one of them would be able to rule the empire. Truly it didn’t matter which one of them had been born first. It never had mattered to her or her husband anyway. In a perfect world, Mila would like them to rule together, side by side. But she was a realist. It would be very special siblings indeed who could share a throne, and that was only if the people could allow such a thing.

Mila knew power easily corrupted those who wielded it. Truthfully, she was proud that neither of her daughters felt ready or desired to take over. It meant they’d prepared them well. Taught them the importance of caring for the people and working for them and with them to better their lives. Being a leader meant much, much more than levying taxes, fine dining, and lining one’s pockets. A royal family needed to hold themselves to a much higher standard. They needed to set an example for others to follow.

How could she expect her young daughters to sacrifice so much when they’d barely begun to know who they were themselves? They were still finding their way, growing into the young women they wanted to become, developing their identities and gifts. Then to expect them to select a match at such a young age? How could she, or they, know for certain the one they chose would still fit in the years to come? Such a weighty, long-lasting decision should be given careful consideration. It wasn’t something to be rushed. Love comes or it doesn’t.

Mila had never believed in a perfect match. Not until she’d met the twins’ father. She’d observed that in most cases couples were somewhat mismatched. They were right enough to work. Only a very, very few were perfect matches. Mila had been lucky in love. She just wished she could give her daughters more time.

She sighed. Whichever daughter was willing and able to marry and produce heirs based on the very short list of matches she’d found was the one who would take over. She knew either of them would do just fine.

Yes, she realized it was too early to lay such a heavy burden at their feet. Still, Mila knew they’d be able to rise to the occasion. Her hope was that they would quickly set aside their childish squabbles and lean on one another for strength. It was the only thing she wanted, hoped—no, needed —to arrange before... well... Mila just wasn’t going to allow herself to dwell on the after . Only the now mattered.

Mila knew her daughters might balk at the idea of courting. But despite their many reforms, the people still expected a tsar to sit next to the tsarina, even if she and her husband had carefully prepared for the balance of power to be shifted to their daughters. And besides, a match didn’t necessarily mean a wedding was imminent. A betrothal just meant stability, not only for her daughters but for the empire itself. She couldn’t bear to think that it would be an act or an inaction on her part that would potentially cause the collapse of her dearly departed husband’s carefully built Kievian Empire.

There were many who had accused her of destroying both the empire and the tsar on the day her husband announced their own match, but Mila worked hard to prove all the skeptics wrong. In fact, the empire became stronger than it had even been after Mila’s union with the tsar, and she would be damned before she let it fall apart now. Not while there was still breath left in her body.

Names and renderings of potential matches and alliances between the empire and other countries danced across the insides of her eyelids. The faces blurred and then organized themselves in neat little rows like soldiers with details emblazoned on their uniforms like insignia. That was better. Mila liked things working in proper order. It was what first drew her to admire her husband, her very own match.

When she first met the tsar, Andrey Mikhail Stepanov II, the famed high commander of the feared Royal Guard, the young military strategist who conquered kingdoms, crushed insurgency, then smoothly charmed politically connected daughters as he twirled them around one by one at lavish parties, never committing himself to wed, but always managing to keep dozens of them trailing him by the coattails like a loyal pack of wolfhounds, she wasn’t sure she liked him.

He was too sure of himself. Too charming. Too closed off. And worse, he was far too clever. That frightened Mila. She was used to being dismissed, or simply paraded around to be stared at and then promptly tucked into a corner, which gave her ample opportunity to study people. But as she studied the tsar, she found him a particularly difficult man to read.

The man she did see though, the one effortlessly enchanting every lady he saw and sweet-talking every diplomat he came across, was the type of man Mila knew she couldn’t trust, let alone marry, not that marriage was probable with her father’s connections. Still, with her beauty, it was best not to take a risk.

What she knew about the tsar was little. Mila was aware that he had taken over the military while his father had still been alive, and it had been through his efforts that the empire had expanded to twice the size it had been in the time of his grandfather. It was the tradition of the royal family for the second- and third-born sons (and so forth) to head the vast far-off sections of the empire, studying the local languages and peoples and commanding the military in those areas to gain experience in strategy, warfare, and diplomacy.

In the case of the current tsar, he was an only child and would have normally been kept safely close to home. But apparently, this tsar-to-be wouldn’t be kept home. Not only did he head the vast legions of the empire’s military alone but he traveled to not one but all the far reaches of the empire, studying all the peoples and languages from a young age, becoming very skilled in a variety of strategies and subjects and tongues.

If only she had been born a man. A beautiful man who was a seventh son could make something of himself. That would have been preferable. Even a homely woman had a chance to live happily as a spinster in her brother’s house. But a pretty girl was sold off to the highest bidder. It was the way of things. The lucky daughters were wed to kind men. The very fortunate might even grow to love their husbands.

Mila didn’t hold out such hope for herself. So she carefully watched and waited and used her gift of assessment to frighten off those who were interested, saying just the wrong thing to turn them away. But despite her considerable abilities, she didn’t know what to say to this one. Honestly, she couldn’t even tell what interested him. He appeared to be terribly fascinated with each person he spent time with, which was a feat she knew wasn’t possible.

What she did know was that this man made her uneasy. And that he was powerful. And because powerful men tended to take what they wanted despite protocol, Mila knew she’d have to be very, very careful and assume the worst when he turned his eyes in her direction. The worst being that he’d be just as interested in her as he seemed to be in every other female in the room. Her only hope was that she’d get lucky, and his attentive gaze would be as feigned with her as she believed it was with everyone else.

Still utterly unable to read the tsar by the time he made his way over to her, Mila decided to try something she’d never done with any other would-be suitor. It was risky, in that it was nearly guaranteed to wipe the self-satisfied smile from the tsar’s face and therefore anger both him and her father, but it would also serve to send him off quickly, seeking the next pretty young lady in whom to pay favor.

She decided to reveal her full self, show the tsar Milena Mariani Dalle, in all her cunning glory. Playing all her cards at once, Mila set each one deliberately and purposely on the table, a thing that should frighten any male easily intimidated by an intelligent female. She looked him in the eye, confidently assessing him as one would an enemy. When they spoke, she countered each of his queries with one of her own.

Mila didn’t bat her lashes, simper, faint, or fan her face. She was bold as brass, daring him to defend his stances on recent political decisions, then she brought up the blight affecting the recent harvest, and finally, she questioned his intentions regarding a series of new immigration laws applicable to peoples petitioning to join the empire, relocating from the other side of the Ural Mountains to their own lands. There were many issues to consider, including culture, language, and what to do about the abandonment of long-held traditions. The Native Alliance was a very new and fragile government and would have to be treated gently and...

And... he didn’t leave.

So Mila finally learned something about the tsar.

Andrey loved a challenge.

* * *

It was true.

Andrey did love a challenge.

And Mila was a puzzle to him.

It was her scrutiny that interested him at first. No one had ever questioned him before.

As for Andrey, he’d known it was time for him to wed, but none of the women presented to him as potential brides were interesting enough. They were lovely. At least some of them had been. There were definitely a few who were strategically excellent options. Mila wasn’t one of those. She was the youngest but extraordinarily lovely daughter of an insignificant diplomat from an even more insignificant country to the far west.

Mila’s remarkable face was the only reason her father even dared offer a seventh daughter as a potential match. Others tried to persuade her father to leave the party early, but the man was stubborn to a fault. Even Mila had seemed embarrassed. But Andrey, used to such attempts, laughed off the gossip and approached the young woman, ignoring her father, who, seeing his only opportunity for advancement, bowed quickly and then rather awkwardly introduced his daughter along with poorly timed, unsubtle comments about the benefits of allying with his country and the merits of his family tree.

The young tsar waved a hand, and skilled servants, always standing at the ready, smoothly guided the father away, distracting him with food and drink and, seeing the tsar’s interest in the young woman, even more food. When the parental guard was sufficiently occupied, Andrey bent over the young lady’s gloved hand and, with only half of his usual charm and enthusiasm, asked, “Shall we take a turn on the dance floor, then, Miss Dalle?”

As he stood, he automatically turned, extending his elbow, expecting to hear her simpering response in the affirmative and the instant female chatter that immediately followed as the young woman used the dance as the opportunity to win his affection. He didn’t mind it, truth be told. He liked women. Andrey found it wasn’t too difficult to listen and respond noncommittally, and yet, in a way, that kept them happy. It was much like working with diplomats. They, too, often prattled about nothing of substance.

But with women, the chatter relaxed him. They spoke of family, of friends, of favorite dishes, or horses and hounds. It didn’t take much to keep them talking—a nod here or there or a simple question or two and they’d be off again, telling him everything he could ever want to know.

Andrey had found, at a very young age, that almost everyone gave up their secrets if you just listened. Sure, occasionally, he needed to make more of an effort. There were some who posed a challenge, but not many. By and large, the greater population was desperate for acceptance and friendship. All he had to do was offer one of those and the masses fell over themselves trying to please him.

But not Mila.

It wasn’t even that she’d said no. Others had tried that before. They’d teased him by attempting coyness, playing hard to get, but Andrey had seen the easy yes hiding behind their masked expressions. He liked games, so he’d play with those women for a while.

It was so easy. All he had to do was shrug and walk away. Most would panic and chase after him almost immediately. Some of them carried the game through. They were a mildly entertaining distraction, lasting a week, or sometimes two, depending on their tenacity and the fervency of their parents.

There’d only been one who’d posed a challenge of any sort. He’d thought something might come of that one. She’d lasted for several months. But in the end, he walked away from her too. Andrey found it curious that he felt melancholy when the game was over. When he finally won, and she was his at last, he thought he’d feel a sense of victory, much like he did after defeating a particularly clever commander in battle.

Instead of buoyant jubilance, the typical swelling itch to crow that comes when moved by male pride, or even the sweet stirrings of dewy love, Andrey felt... nothing. No. Nothing wasn’t quite right. He felt something for the girl. And that something made him want to send her immediately packing.

It was distaste. Andrey just plain didn’t like her. He respected her well enough; she was calculating, cold, and clever. Wrongly, he’d believed the coldness would disappear after they were together, but if anything it became worse. Then he quickly discovered that when his eyes were turned away, her eyes went roving. She also possessed a streak of cruelty, especially toward the staff or anyone else she deemed as being of a lesser station. Her viciousness was the bag of grain that upset the boat. Admire her, he did. Like her, he didn’t. All those undesirable traits made up his mind for him, and she was discreetly shown the door.

For a time, despondency took him. He was surprised to learn that he’d been looking forward to the new challenges that would come with cultivating a relationship, and he began truly seeking out a bride for the first time in his young life after that. But all too quickly, enthusiasm turned once again to boredom and then despair. That was until he met Mila. When he’d asked her to dance, there was no reply at all.

At first, when no gloved fingers clutched his arm and no warm body pressed up against his, he assumed something was wrong. Andrey twisted his head to glance back at the lovely young woman, expecting to either handle a problem or see a coy expression. Instead, he looked behind those long, dark lashes and storm-gray eyes and recognized that she was assessing him. Him! The tsar!

Such a thing had never happened to him before. Andrey found himself straightening, turning back to her fully as if to present himself to a queen. The seconds dragged on, adding up to a full minute. He looked into her face for that entire minute, searching for her purpose. What is she looking for? he wondered.

His mouth quirked ever so slightly as he anticipated a new game with an exciting new opponent. But as another minute passed, and a charming little line appeared between her delicate eyebrows, indicating she was still deep in thought, he heard the crowd stirring, their whispering escalating in volume, her own father among them, growing ever more desperate to intervene, and the tsar found he wasn’t ready for their encounter to be over yet.

“My lady,” he said, dipping his head respectfully. “If a dance is not to your liking, perhaps you would do me the honor of taking some refreshment together?”

She seemed to consider his offer very briefly, then shook her head. “I’m not hungry at present. Perhaps a walk instead?”

“A w... walk?” he sputtered, but then quickly acquiesced. “If that is your desire.”

“It is.”

Andrey took her hand and tucked it around his arm. The pair began to stroll about the room, and as they did, she relaxed. Though she was at least a foot shorter than him, her stride was purposeful and strong. She didn’t flounce about to preen for others or show off the sway of her full hips or the swish of her skirts. He liked that she kept pace with him and was solely focused on the conversation.

As they turned around the ballroom, she launched into a barrage of questions regarding everything from his stances on the newly passed laws governing the lands to the east, to farming, to how he managed the recruitment of new soldiers from groups of orphaned children, to suggesting visiting dignitaries he should keep a watchful eye on.

Andrey answered each query as succinctly as possible, amazed and sometimes even embarrassed that he or his advisors hadn’t considered some of the items she already had.

Then, out of nowhere, she added, “I should like to see your gardens, if at all possible.”

Almost grateful for the change in subject, he replied, “Of course. My gardens are at your disposal at any time.”

Her eyes dropped from his then, and she clasped her hands in front of her, not in a nervous way, but in a way that spoke to him of steadiness and surety. “May I be candid?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he replied, taking a step closer, wishing the two of them were alone and not currently being stared at and whispered about by everyone in the lavishly appointed ballroom.

“I believe a garden shows the heart of a man. That and how he cares for his uniform. If I am to marry you, I first desire to judge your character. I’ve determined that your uniform is well cared for; therefore I’d like to move on to the garden. My apologies if I’ve offended you, and if you aren’t interested in me in that way, you are free to move on to the next young lady. I just loathe wasting time, and I can’t imagine a tsar such as yourself would appreciate his time being wasted either.”

Andrey blinked not once but twice before he replied, but when he did, a genuine smile lit his face. Mila had thought her blunt comments about marriage, the garden and the uniform, and her barrage of questions would irritate him at the least, but when he smiled, and she saw the mask lift from his face and warmth light his eyes, her heart actually skipped. For the first time in her life, Mila’s breath caught, and she chided herself for being distracted by the tsar’s handsome face and silky demeanor. Apparently, she was as easily charmed by him as everyone else, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“My dear Miss Dalle, I appreciate your candor. However, I find fault with your judging criteria. Though I, too, favor a well-pressed uniform, I must ask you how you can assume one such as I, as important as I am, cares for his own uniform? Surely you would prefer to wed my dresser or perhaps my launderer rather than myself if that is your criteria. As to my gardens, the same principle applies. A man such as I would not have time to work in a garden or care for it. So how would you judge me worthy?”

“I know you care for your uniform yourself,” she began, slightly distracted by the hard muscles beneath her palm. The very uniform she was speaking about suddenly became a very tangible, weighty thing.

“Indeed?” he prompted, retreating into old tricks to say as little as possible so as to get her to talk of herself and spill her secrets.

Indeed? Indeed? Her tongue felt thick. Her skin hot. The brush of skirts hit her legs, and her pulse sounded in her ears. Was she ill? What was happening to her?

When she didn’t immediately chime in, Andrey became frustrated. He wanted to see her face. His body began to hum in anticipation, like it did the night before a battle. This was a game unlike any he had played before. He felt almost as if he didn’t understand the rules. Before he could stop himself, he pled, “Tell me: How do you know this?”

She glanced up at him with a distracted expression. Was she not even paying attention? What was going on in that mind?

“Oh. About your uniform?” she asked.

Andrey nodded, encouraging her to talk.

Mila shook her head as if to clear it. “That was easy. The soldiers guarding you care for their own uniforms. Each one of them is mussed in a slightly different way. Not enough polish on one pair of boots or a torn sleeve or collar here or there. Perhaps a button is missing on one or a thread is dangling from a hem. Your personal guards’ uniforms are all cared for by the same man. He is very good but not as good as you. The lint is brushed away, the fabric is pressed, the buckles are gleaming, and the boots are evenly polished.”

That was better. When Mila focused on details, her thoughts cleared. Her skin was still warm, however. Perhaps some cold air would help.

They reached the end of the ballroom, and Andrey led her around the edge and toward a door that led to a balcony overlooking the estate. “Go on,” he said.

“Though each man, I assume, dresses himself, accounting for the slight differences in insignia placement, the skew or bend of a hat, the laces of a boot, or the wear of a belt, your uniform shows that someone has blackened and carefully polished your boots to a high gloss. I suspect that the blackening is of a different type than that used on the boots of the others. Either that or there might be something added to it such as extra beeswax or lanolin or perhaps you simply allowed the polish to dry longer or took more care in the buffing. Regardless, I can see that you have also meticulously cared for the exposed side indentations. This is something not found on any of the other pairs of boots.

“Then there are the buttons. They have been polished, yes, but the carved details have also been meticulously cleaned with a tiny tool. This also was not done on the other uniforms.”

Andrey didn’t realize he’d stopped walking. When he saw that she simply clasped her hands behind her back, shrugged, and continued on to the balcony doors without him, he hurried to catch up, desperate to hear more details of how her incredible mind worked.

“Please forgive me,” he said, taking her hand and tucking it under his arm again as they proceeded to the doors that were immediately opened by guards. The crisp, cold night air of St. Rostislav swirled around them, promising a dusting of snow by morning, but where other women would have called for furs or used the weather as an excuse to paw at him, Mila inhaled deeply and seemed to derive strength from the brisk breeze.

For the first time, Andrey found he desired to draw a woman closer simply because he wanted to, because he liked her, because she interested him. At the same time, he wanted to relish every single moment and discovery of her. He began studying her, truly seeing her then, considering her as a serious match.

There was no advantage for him politically. But she was clever, strong, and capable. He shrugged off such thoughts. There was plenty of time to think about her later. Right now he wanted to hear more. Learn everything he could.

Mila thought the cool night air would help with whatever was ailing her, but if anything she felt the heat of the tsar’s body behind her even more intensely. She trembled, but not with cold. He wasn’t responding to her like any man before her had or like she had expected.

“Will you continue?” he asked softly as they stood at the balcony, side by side.

His voice was quiet. Smooth. Silky. As warm as a fur-lined cloak. At once she wanted to hear that voice murmur in her ear and have it wrap around her on a cold winter night.

“Yes. But first, your guards are cold. Perhaps someone can fetch their coats? And I’d hate to let the night air disturb your other guests. One or two can serve as chaperones, can they not?”

Surprised, Andrey turned and gave a quick nod. The doors were shut and only one guard, a very discreet one, was left to watch over them. It was a great relief to know she was kind. It was rare for one of her station to be concerned about those who served beneath her. She was also observant of protocol and her reputation. He was pondering that and other things and missed the first part of what she said.

“Where I noticed a small flaw in the fabric—perhaps left in by the weaver due to a catch in the loom, repeated on each officer’s uniform—I found no trace of it on yours. That is how I know you take care of your own uniform.”

“What was that?” he asked. “A flaw?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

She turned to face him then and took his hand, turning his arm so the sleeve was exposed on the underside. When she traced her finger up the sleeve and found a tiny stitch, she said, “This is the first repair. The second should be somewhere...”

Andrey took her trembling hand from his sleeve and slid it to his chest, pressing it below his medals and insignia until it rested just against his beating heart. He wore far too many layers to feel much more than the pressure of her gloved hand, and yet, for just a fraction of a moment, he thought he imagined the uptick of her pulse.

“It was here,” the tsar said softly, cupping her gloved hand, unable to resist moving his body closer to hers. He told himself it was just to keep her warm, but he knew it was a lie. He wanted to feel her against him.

When she looked up at him, her beautiful face lit by cold moonlight, strands of hair dancing about her delicate neck in the crisp breeze, and a spark of awareness slowly blossoming into interest, he smiled.

Lowering his head closer, Andrey was rewarded with a hitch in her breathing, but instead of touching his lips to hers as he so desperately wished to, or nuzzling her soft neckline, he murmured, “Perhaps I can arrange a personal tour of the gardens tomorrow?”

“Y... yes, that... that would be acceptable,” she said. And Mila was surprised to note that she was anticipating seeing him again.

“Good. I very much look forward to it. Now, as I am certain we are causing the wagging of many, many tongues, despite the fact we aren’t doing anything interesting with ours...” Though it was dark, the windows offered sufficient enough light for Andrey to see a very pretty blush stain her cheeks. The sight warmed him. “As much as I wish we could linger here, I feel it might be better for us to head back inside.”

“Of course, you’re right,” she said immediately, then turned to the soldier guarding them. “We appreciate your acting as our chaperone. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind escorting me back in. It wouldn’t do for the tsar to show... favoritism.”

The soldier sputtered, but at seeing the nod from the tsar, offered his arm, and without a glance back in his direction, Mila took her leave.

As they parted, both Mila and Andrey had the same thought.

That was... unexpected.

* * *

Her given name, Milena Mariani Dalle, was changed on their wedding day, representing her complete transformation not only as a wife but as a newly baptized and utterly loyal citizen of the empire. When the crown was lowered onto her head, and the cardinal pronounced her tsarina, the woman who was Milena Mariani Dalle was indeed gone forever, replaced by the regal, the new Ludmila Marianka Sashenka Stepanov.

Despite her reservations, Mila not only liked her new husband, the tsar and high commander of the Royal Guard; she quickly came to love him. It was obvious to all that the tsar was enamored of his beautiful new wife as well. That she brought no wealth or connections to the empire was soon forgotten as the tsar and tsarina embarked on a tour around the empire and he introduced diplomats, kings, and ambassadors, young and old, to the tsarina, stepping back and allowing her center stage as she impressed them with her poise, wisdom, beauty, and keen eye.

When the tsar was congratulated on his rare find in a wife, he circled an arm around her waist, thickening with their soon-to-be firstborn and proudly said, “But I didn’t find her. She found me. I am a lucky man, indeed.”

So effective was their co-rule and the changes made in the empire—thanks to policy reforms drafted by Mila—that the roles of women, even those elite born, shifted dramatically in the span of just a few years. Opportunities in education, the military, and politics were suddenly opened to females where they had been closed before, and the economic boon converted those few who remained tied to the old ways.

When the twins were born, both female, and doctors told Mila and Andrey they would not be able to have any other children—specifically and somewhat unkindly pointing out there would be no forthcoming male heirs, something that might have devastated royal predecessors—they were saddened, of course, but the young couple knew they could fashion an empire their daughters could someday rule. Together they worked to build a society that not only relied on women but embraced them and encouraged the growth of their twins in every possible way.

Then, when the girls were only just past a decade of age, Andrey died, and a part of Mila died with him. Though by then all considered her perfectly capable of running the empire, at least until her daughters came of age, and she had trusted generals to take over the Royal Guard, it wasn’t the same without the tsar. The light was gone from Mila’s life. The empire came to a standstill.

All were waiting for the twins to rise to power. Mila could almost taste the anticipation. If only they could see how much good they could accomplish, for women, for the world. If they only knew how much had been done on their behalf. But the younger never did. They never appreciated the sacrifices of their elders. Not until they learned their own life lessons.

If Mila could just get them ready...

Her dreams shifted away from the past and her own true love.

If only her daughters could find happiness as she had. But who among all these choices would be right? There were so many options. So many paths. Which one was right? How could she protect her children and the empire she and her husband had built when she couldn’t see all the pieces? No matter what she did, she’d have to leave everything on the table, the result of the game unknown, cards still in play.

Would her daughters even take her seat? Pick up her hand? Would they notice how she’d stacked the deck for them? How everything they loved, everything that meant anything to them, had been risked and tossed into the game? Did they know how much she loved them? Did they understand how much they could lose?

Men’s faces danced again behind her closed eyelids.

Together they bowed, but there was something shifty in their eyes. They began to move as one, clasping shoulders and dancing with spirited kicks, claps, stomps, and slaps around a small bonfire. As they whirled, the bonfire grew brighter, burning and licking their black, scuffed boots.

The tsarina frowned in her sleep. She didn’t like scuffed boots. They should be polished.

Pain twisted her gut.

Who was in charge of those boots? They weren’t done properly. She’d have to speak to someone. Her husband wouldn’t like it. Threads dangled from sleeves and buttons popped off jackets, melting in the blaze. The fire burned. She cried out as it touched her, catching her skirts. When had she joined the dance?

Mila tugged, trying to escape the clutches of the men, but they pulled her closer to the hot flames. Their skin popped into blisters, the wetness trickling down blackened cheeks, then the crispy skin peeled away from white grinning skulls. She screamed, and the laughing suitors dragged her along with them into the inferno.