20
Vasili couldn’t quite manage to catch up to Alexandra. He wasn’t following the trail as she was; he was keeping her in his sights instead. But more than once the snow became so thick, she was lost from his view and he panicked and shouted at her, even though he knew damn well she couldn’t hear him.
Although the mountain road was no more visible than anything else, Vasili was sure they were on it and that the thieves had circled around the camp to get back to it.
After all, it would be the safest route for them to take, especially if they thought no one was following them, and with nightfall coming on fast.
When it did start to get dark, he panicked again because he had nothing to light a torch with, even if he could find something dry to use, and no time to do either.
He tried to coax a little more speed from the roan, but the descent was too steep in places, making it too treacherous because of the snow.
The stallion balked, having already gone to his knees once, where he actually slid several feet. He refused to go any faster.
When night finally did fall, Vasili found that he had panicked for no reason. The only advantage that the snow provided him was that the pristine white landscape kept complete darkness at bay, allowing him to still see ahead—when the swirling gusts weren’t blinding him.
Hours passed; he didn’t know how many. But he knew he was going to die.
He was slowly freezing to death, his extremities already numb.
He remained in the saddle only by sheer determination, keeping one thing in mind: he was going to murder that fool woman…
no, he would make love to her first and then murder her.
And then the wind suddenly stopped, and within moments, the snow also stopped falling.
The temperature might have become less severe, too, but Vasili was in no condition to tell.
What was obvious was that the growth of oak and fir trees on either side of him had become thicker.
Somehow he had nearly reached the foothills on the lower slopes.
People lived in the foothills, entire villages, with fires and warm, cozy huts, hot food and drink.
If he could just continue for a mile or so more, he might not die after all.
Before he had even finished the thought, he saw Alexandra veer abruptly south off the road, and he groaned. Moments earlier, he might not have noticed, might have gone right past where the trail left the road and lost her entirely.
With the wind quiet now, he tried shouting again, but she was already gone from sight.
When he reached the same point, he could see her again, but she was as far ahead of him as she had been all along.
And she was no longer descending. The trail was actually rising gradually as it followed a narrow path along the slope.
Again he shouted her name. She heard him this time. Her head turned. She looked right at him. But she didn’t stop. She dug her heels into her horse instead.
That did it! He really was going to murder her as soon as he got his hands on her—if they both didn’t freeze first. Fortunately, her borrowed horse wasn’t any more eager for a gallop than his stallion was, so she didn’t gain on him.
But she continued to maintain the same distance that kept him from reaching her.
He wondered if a shot from the pistol he’d stuck in his belt earlier would stop her or spur her on.
If he’d brought more than one, he’d be tempted to find out.
Then again, she might have one of her own and fire back at him, thinking he was trying to kill her.
She had good reason to think so. Besides, he didn’t trust her not to shoot at him in retaliation.
Her horses were involved, after all, and there was no doubt whatsoever that they meant more to her than he did.
Damned horses. He wouldn’t be out here freezing if—
Torches suddenly flickered far ahead. Either they’d found the thieves or a village, or both.
But Alexandra didn’t slow down to let him catch up to her.
She kept charging straight for the lights, and after another few moments, he could see why.
Her horses. She’d seen her horses, and she was probably too furious even to think of the danger that lay ahead, and she was certainly too furious to be sensible.
And, because he couldn’t stop it or her, he had to watch her ride right into the midst of a half-dozen men and start wielding the horsewhip that she had taken to carrying on her hip ever since the fight.
She scattered the men. Horses were rearing.
One man was thrown from his mount and slid and tumbled down the slope a good twenty feet.
Another raised a pistol and had it whipped from his hand.
The rest were dismounting. The path was too narrow a space for so many horses to converge, and the men obviously intended to bring Alexandra down before she did any serious damage.
Vasili drew his pistol and fired, but it was good for only one shot, and once it was discharged, he threw it away to draw his sword.
He was still too late to keep Alexandra from being yanked off her mount, and with the torches having been dropped to the ground and the snow swiftly extinguishing them, he couldn’t see what had happened to her.
Another shot was fired, this one at Vasili. But he was still so numb with cold that he doubted he’d feel it if he were hit. He trusted he wasn’t, and when he finally reached the group on the ground, he started swinging his sword to prove it.
The bandits scattered again, a bit more leery of his sword than they’d been of the whip, though they didn’t go far. They brandished an assortment of weapons that he took note of—a dagger, two swords, a club, but no other pistols that he could see. And he could also see Alexandra now.
She was on the ground, fighting with one of the men, who was trying to hold her down and get a rope around her.
That he had his hands on her at all made Vasili a little crazy, and without considering that he’d be giving up his advantage on horseback, he dove at the man, slamming against him, rolling on the ground until he managed enough purchase to smash his sword hilt against the fellow’s head.
He got back to his feet swiftly, slipping only a little in the snow, and faced three more men. The fourth had taken over with Alexandra before she’d had a chance to get up; he had her face down in the snow with a knee in her back, tying her hands. He’d be joining the fray in moments.
Vasili had his shocking burst of rage under control now.
He wouldn’t even have minded the odds he was facing; he considered them paltry against his own sword skill.
But slippery ground had a way of evening odds, and he couldn’t help but remember the one time he’d trained with Stefan in snow, and how they’d spent more time on their backsides than on their feet, a learning experience which he couldn’t use to his advantage when facing more than one opponent.
He was still ready and eager for the first assault, and it came swiftly.
Vasili held his ground, deciding that the least movement would be the best defense under these circumstances, and it worked for a while.
He disarmed one man, wounded another, and had found an opening on the third when he was forced to stop, to go perfectly still.
The blade digging into his back—sword or dagger, he couldn’t tell—had pierced through his cloak, jacket, and shirt, telling him without a doubt that he wasn’t too numb to feel a wound after all.