The Captive #3
My ears rang. The horses screamed down the picket line—Juno’s voice on top, tearing at me—and smoke hung around us and my wrist was caught fast in a grip like a manacle, and I stood there half-deafened in the grey dawn, wide-eyed, pressed nearly chest to chest with a man who had every reason to kill me.
He didn’t kill me.
He used my captured wrist to haul me against him. Through robe and nightgown I fetched up against a body with all the give of a saddle tree, and his voice came down from very close, rough now, the French gone dark and soft.
“And if you refuse to be parted from them, my lady—then we will take you too.”
His gaze dropped and made the journey down me, slow, thorough, entirely without shame. My robe hung open. Beneath it was one thin layer of lawn, and beneath that was a widow of six-and-thirty in her bare feet, in front of a dozen mounted strangers.
I did not have to guess at his meaning. It stood plain in his face, along with the scar and the beard and that ruinous half-smile, waiting to see what I would do about it.
Well.
I had told my son I wanted to see the edge of the civilized world.
It appeared the edge had come to see me.
Damn.
It was impossible to think that a lady—a dowager duchess—could go with this—this—this outlaw! It wouldn’t be proper. It wouldn’t be safe.
But here, beyond civilization, beyond everything I knew, beyond everyone who knew me…I stood on a precipice.
The man’s expression softened into that devil-may-care grin once more, although I saw the threat, the danger, lurking in his eyes. He was trying to charm me.
“My lady, there is no need for you to endure hardship.” His French was melodious, with a hint of a Russian accent.
“We will take some of your silver, da, and the English animals, but leave you the rest of your provisions and the horses to pull your wagons. You and your people can return to civilization with a tale worthy of the campfire.”
Could he feel the way my pulse was hammering beneath his fingers? Did I imagine the way his hand flexed around my wrist, or the way my breasts tingled, pressed against his chest the way they were?
I swallowed my fear, telling myself my love of Juno and Hector was worth a little adventure.
“You cannot take them from me.” My voice shook, damn me. “Please.”
When he grinned, his teeth were white against his beard. “Little rabbit, I have told you that the alternative is to take you with them, and you do not want that. I can tell you are a lady—it would ruin you.”
No one would know.
“You will not hurt my maid?”
I surprised him, judging from the way he blinked. “Schto? I mean, what are you talking about?”
The breath I took was shuddering, terrified, and I tried to stop my mouth from saying the words. But it was as if I were ignoring the logical part of my brain, and acting solely on impulse.
“If I go with you, monsieur…You will not hurt my men or my maid?”
Slowly, his frown of confusion melted into a smug grin of power, and he made a show of considering me. “You think you are in a position to negotiate, my lady? What makes you worth the lives of six men and an Englishwoman?”
The lives? Dear God, he would kill Hobbs and Semyon and poor Pytor Ilyich and the others? I panicked.
“I am a duchess!” I cried, leaning toward him, craning my neck to hold his gaze, resting my free hand against his chest in my desperation to make him understand. “The dowager Duchess of Wrentham! My son will pay for my safe return, and for that of my people and horses!”
One of his brows had risen at my title. “The Duchess of Wrentham?” Suddenly, he stepped away from me, far enough to affect a curt bow, without dropping my wrist. “I am Dmitri Andreyevich Volkov.”
Volkov—Russian for wolf. It fit him, with his toothy grin and hard eyes.
He rose, tugged me hard so I fell against his chest once more, and sneered down at me. “And you are merely a woman. If I were to ransom you and your people and your animals back to the Duke, I would have to keep you alive for many months, in my camp.”
Oh God. Oh God.
I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, but little beyond that.
I would be his prisoner.
And it would be my choice.
To my surprise, Volkov’s smirk turned hard, as he made a show of shifting, pushing himself against me. I gasped when I felt the hardness in his baggy breeches, below the leather of his belt. His cock was hardening against my stomach.
My lips parted as I swayed closer.
I should be terrified.
So why was my core beginning to throb?
“Duchess, here on the steppes your title will do little for you. But you are a krasivaya zhenshchina…” He didn’t translate that for me, but the hunger in his sneer told me what I needed to know, and God help me, but the pulse between my thighs heightened.
“So, little rabbit…” He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned his lips closer to my ear. “What can you offer me, not as a Duchess, but as a woman?”
I thought of those twelve years of discreet affairs. I thought of A Harlot’s Guide, which I’d read enough to have memorized. I thought of the adventure I’d wanted, and the thought of being parted from my horses, and my servants, whom I had to save.
And I lifted my chin. “My name is Augusta.”
I felt his smile, same as I felt his breath on the sensitive spot beneath my ear, and I shuddered.
“So, Augusta, you and your horses are mine now.”
I whimpered as he used my wrist to drag my hand down his body, until he pressed my palm against the hardness in his trousers. His hand closed around mine, until I was gripping his cock through the wool. My cheeks burned, and I thought I heard him chuckle.
“Little rabbit, your people will be safe to return to civilization and send word to your son, and you will show me proper appreciation.”
Appreciation? I thought of page twelve, The Supplicant Swan, with the woman on her knees in front of the man, his cock in her mouth.
And, to my shame and excitement, I knew I would be willing to do that and so much more to this man, if it meant saving my people and my animals.
“Yes,” I finally breathed.
He abruptly released me, and I stumbled back, to be caught by Hobbs, who was blathering hysterically. But I couldn’t seem to make my mind comprehend her words. Instead, I watched Volkov stomp about the camp, shouting orders I couldn’t comprehend.
His men laughed and nodded and began to loot our supplies, but I realized they were not taking more than my people could afford to lose. I felt Hobbs’ hold on me tightening, but my vision narrowed to Volkov, gesturing expansively.
Perhaps this was shock.
To my surprise, Semyon made his way to me, his expression guarded. He stopped before me and gave a little bow. When he rose, I made myself focus on his face, which now looked…impressed?
In what I could only graciously call halting French—so he spoke some after all?—he managed, “You brave…Volkov is…” He waved as if not able to explain. “Volk.” Wolf. “Cossack story…” He shook his head, then planted a fist against his chest. “Thank you for…my life, lady. Goodbye.”
Hobbs began to sob, and I turned my shocked attention to comforting her, first outside the tent, then inside. I began packing my valise furiously, scared Volkov might leave me behind and take my horses.
Yes, that was the only reason I didn’t want to be left behind.
Although I was still in my nightgown, I threw a coat over my robe, a heavy fur I’d picked up in St. Petersburg. My valise could hold an extra gown of heavy wool and three chemises. There was no room for stays, and without Hobbs, no one to lace me into them. Stockings, bloomers… Oh God, what else?
“Milady, you cannot go with him!” Hobbs sobbed. “You heard what Semyon said! He is a wolf!”
“I hope so,” I muttered, only to tsk dismissively when she wailed, and I swung back to her, clutching my bag to my chest and losing my patience.
“Hobbs! You will return to Moscow and send word to my son! Take my earrings and the pearl necklace, turn them into enough money to live until Edwin sends money and a rescue! You can do this, my friend.”
“And you, my lady?” she sniffed, pulling herself together.
I straightened my shoulders and turned to the tent flap. “I am going to do whatever necessary to stay alive.”
Volkov took my valise from my arms without asking and tossed it to a rider, who caught it one-handed and lashed it behind his saddle in the same motion.
Then my captor turned back to me, put both hands on my waist, and lifted me onto one of the shaggy little steppe horses as though I weighed nothing at all.
“I will ride my own mare,” I informed him.
He chuckled and swung up behind me.
The horse—barely fourteen hands, thick-necked, smelling of dust and sheepskin—took our combined weight without complaint.
The saddle had a high wooden pommel and a fleece thrown over it, and there was nowhere to sit except astride, which meant my nightgown rucked up over my calves, and I was forced to lean back against him.
Juno was on a lead line behind a wiry young rider who sat quietly and kept slack in the rope. Hector followed, ears up, already flirting with the strange horses like the shameless creature he was. My babies were frightened but unhurt, and better handled than I had any right to expect.
That was the last thing I checked.
I did not look back at the camp, at Hobbs, at the crumpled shape of my old life being folded up behind me. Looking back has never once improved a woman’s seat.
We rode south as the sun rose on our left.
The Cossacks grew loud as the light did—calling across the column, laughing, one of them singing a few bars until another threw something at him. Volkov answered rarely, a word here, a grunt there, and every word out of him made the men around us grin.
Beneath the fear running through me like a low fever, I understood that these men were happy. The raid had gone well, no one had died, and they were going home.
By mid-morning I was sweating under the fur.