To Wed a Wicked Prince (33 page)

They rode over London Bridge and then followed the river south. Three times Tatarinov turned his horse into a narrow side street, telling Livia brusquely to stay where he could see her. He knocked out the same rhythm on three doors and a hasty conversation that Livia could not make out ensued, resulting on each occasion in a man joining them on a sturdy pony.

The three men stared at Livia but offered no greeting; instead the men talked amongst themselves in Russian, leaving their female companion to her own unquiet thoughts.

It was an hour’s ride to Greenwich, the longest hour Livia thought she had ever spent. They rode into the village and took the Norman road down to the docks. They passed a watchman with his lantern on a tall pole, making his rounds, his voice a mournful chant:
Three o’clock and all’s well.

He looked suspiciously at the group of riders as they passed him, and Tatarinov leaned down from his horse and tossed him a coin. The watchman deftly caught the glint of silver and pocketed it, then continued on his way, still chanting. The night riders could be bringing rapine and mayhem to the village of Greenwich, but a silver coin bought a watchman’s silence.

The handful of ships swinging at anchor along the quayside showed riding lights in the dark, and a handful of buildings along the wharf had lanterns hanging outside. Sounds of shouting and laughter came from within several of them, and a door opened at one. Two men, forcibly ejected from the taproom, rolled onto the mud-slick cobbles in a violent tangle of limbs.

Tatarinov conferred with his companions and then spoke finally to Livia. “There’s a boat shed over yonder. You’ll be safe enough there.”

“Judging by the type of person frequenting this wharf, I somehow doubt that,” Livia said acidly. “And if it were safe for me to hide in a boat shed, what are you going to be doing in the meantime?” Her fingers closed reflexively over her pistol.

“Reconnoiter,” he said. “No point running into anything if we don’t know what’s out there. Maybe the prince isn’t even here.”

This made perfect sense, but Livia had no intention of allowing them to go off without her. “Don’t mind me,” she said firmly. “I won’t interfere in the least. I’ll stay in the background until I can see something useful to do.”

Tatarinov glowered. For two pins he’d call his companions over and they’d physically restrain the woman, but he couldn’t help the reflection that if he offered injury or insult to Prokov’s wife, the prince, assuming he came out of this alive, would not be best pleased. “If I were your husband I’d be mighty glad to see the back of you, shouldn’t wonder,” Tatarinov muttered, turning his horse into the shelter of a dilapidated lean-to beside a boat shed on the quay.

Livia smiled for the first time since this nightmare had begun. “Oh, I don’t think he will,” she said. “I really don’t think so at all.” She followed his lead and dismounted, tethering Daphne to a post in the lean-to close to a water-filled horse trough.

Tatarinov’s men dismounted and tethered their own horses, then after a whispered discussion the four men split up, two going into the village, Tatarinov and the other taking different directions along the quay. Livia, after a moment’s reflection, headed after Tatarinov. She had an idea, just a niggle of an idea at present, but if they were in luck and found Alex somewhere in this line of ships, she thought she could see a role for herself in his rescue.

Alex in the aft cabin of the good ship
Caspar
was cursing his own stupidity, even as he tried to think of how and when he had made a mistake. How had these two ruffians known to come for him? They’d said nothing of any significance since they’d appeared in his bedchamber. Boris, of course, would never have let them upstairs, but Morecombe, as he’d made very clear, did not work for Prince Prokov. He’d open the door and let a visitor in, but it wouldn’t occur to him to inquire of the prince if said visitor would be welcome.

But they would have taken him somehow, Alex knew. These were Arakcheyev’s men and failure was not an option. But with a little warning he could have been more ready for them. Sperskov’s disappearance was the key, he now realized. He should have armed himself against discovery the minute Tatarinov had told him the duke had vanished. But he had always believed in a cool head. Make sure of something before you act. In this particular instance, with hindsight, not the best operating procedure, he reflected with grim cynicism.

He could have resisted when they came for him, of course, but that would have endangered Livia. He had expected her home at any minute throughout the confrontation, his ears straining for a sound from the adjoining bedchamber. Arakcheyev’s brutish henchmen would have had no scruples how they used her, and with only a handful of women, an old deaf man, and a youth in the house to summon for aid, he could see little help for it but to go with them without a fight.

And now he was bound and gagged, tied to a chair in a dismal cabin in a yawl heading on the morning’s tide for Calais, and from there the hell of an overland journey to St. Petersburg and the tender hands of Arakcheyev.

The emperor wouldn’t speak up for him, and with a wry twist of his mouth beneath the filthy strip of sacking that kept him silent, Alex thought that he could hardly blame the man when his so-called friend had been part of a conspiracy plotting his death. He knew he had the czar to thank for the fact that he was still alive. Dried blood crusted a gash over his left eye and his lip was split, a purple bruise swelling on his cheekbone, courtesy of his captors, who hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to exert a little power over the usually powerful. But apart from these really minor injuries he was in essence unhurt.

The czar would insist on absolute proof of Prince Prokov’s involvement in the conspiracy before anything really unpleasant could happen to him. But that protection would last only as far as his final interview with the emperor.

Oh, he thought he could manage to face the inevitable with some degree of dignity, even the degradation of pain, although that would be harder. But he was tormented by the knowledge that he was parting from Livia without reconciliation. She still saw only his deception, a monumental deception, he would freely admit, but unless he could be sure she saw also, and believed in, his love, then he would die a wretched death. Just five minutes, that would be all he needed.

But Livia was tucked up, snug and resentful and angry, in Cavendish Square, and here he was. As helpless as a trussed goose.

The sound of voices brought him out of his grim reverie. Familiar voices. The captain of this scruffy yawl, sounding as if he’d hit the rum bottle rather frequently during the evening, and another voice, one that made his heart jump and cleared his mind of anything but the need to concentrate and be ready for action.

Tatarinov.

No point wondering how the man had known what had happened, Alex told himself, just concentrate on how to tell him that he was there, just below him. Alex looked around the small, dim cabin. The chair he was tied to was bolted to the floor, as was every piece of furniture. There was a lamp burning low on the table. He could think of many uses for it in his present predicament, but they all depended on his being able to hold it, and he couldn’t do that.

His arms were bound at his sides by the rope that tied him to the chair. And the knots were masterly sailor’s knots. His legs were tied together at the ankles but he could still move them in unison. He swung his legs up from the knees, kicking the underside of the table. Although its base was securely bolted to the decking, the wooden top shook and the lamp with it. He kicked again, a little more carefully; he didn’t want the lamp to roll over. It could set light to this tinderbox in the blink of an eye.

Trying to strike a happy medium between making sufficient noise to be heard and not upending the lantern, he set up a rhythm that Tatarinov would recognize if he could hear it.

Livia stood on the quayside in the shadows, watching the group on the deck of the
Caspar.
Tatarinov was talking with two men, and they struck her as a formidable trio. The sailors, as she assumed they were, were powerful figures, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. Tatarinov himself, as she’d already reflected, reminded her of a bull.

They were taking no notice of her and she edged closer to the side of the yawl, hearing the lapping of the dark water below. It was quite a wide gap between the side of the yawl and the quay, and she tried not to look down into that sinister blackness as she leaned forward, attempting to peer through a grimy porthole even as she strained her ears to hear what they were saying. At least they were speaking in English.

“We’ll be away at dawn on the morning tide,” one of the two men said to Tatarinov. “Be in Calais by sundown tomorrow.”

“Can you take a passenger? I’ll pay well for passage.” Tatarinov rattled his pockets and the chink of coin rang in the still frosty air.

“Oh, aye? Well, as to that, we’ve already got passengers…don’t know if we’ve room for another,” the other man said.

“I’ll pay well,” Tatarinov repeated.

“Eh, there’s room enough,” his colleague stated. “Cabin’s occupied, but you can stay on deck. It’ll be a mite chilly, but with a good thick boat cloak you’ll manage, I reckon. ’Tis a daylight crossing when all’s said an’ done.”

“Just a minute,” the other said, cocking his head towards the hatchway. He pointed down towards the hatch. “Best do summat about that.”

“Aye,” the other said, hitching up his britches, which were fastened with a piece of rope. “We’ll be back in a minute, sir.”

Tatarinov nodded as if he had no interest in their conversation, but Livia saw his stony expression as he turned away from the hatch, thrusting his hands into his britches’ pockets and staring grimly out at the quay.

She leaned closer to the porthole and experimentally rubbed at it with her sleeve. The strangest feeling gripped her, an odd excitement. She spat on the grimy glass and rubbed again, managing to clear a small circle.

She stared into a dimly lit space, all in shadow. It was impossible to make anything out clearly, just dark shapes and the glow of a lantern somewhere. But she could hear something, a steady thumping, and there was a vaguely recognizable rhythm to it.

Again that strange feeling gripped her, more strongly this time. Impatiently she spat again on the glass and rubbed vigorously, widening the clear space. Her view opened out and she saw into more of the cabin now.

And she saw the bundled figure on the chair, close to the table. And she saw him raise both his feet at right angles to his body and kick the underside of the table. That was the noise she had heard, and the rhythm was the one Tatarinov had used to summon his cohorts on the journey. It had to be Alex.

She raised a hand to tap on the glass and then reared back, almost losing her footing on the slippery quay. She felt sick. The two men had entered the cabin. She could hear the sounds of their fists but she couldn’t bear to look. Alex’s kicking had attracted more than just Tatarinov’s attention. He would have known it would, of course. He would be prepared for what they were doing to him now, but such a realization did nothing to help Livia.

She moved away from the side, not knowing what she should do, her eyes searching for Tatarinov. Then she saw him turn towards the hatchway as the two sailors came back out, one of them rubbing his knuckles. Tatarinov glanced to the quay, saw Livia approaching, and with an infinitesimal movement of his hand told her to back away.

She had no choice but to let him conclude his business with the sailors, and then she would tell him what she intended to do. Anger had replaced her sick horror. She melted back into the shadows to wait.

L
IVIA, HUGGING THE SHADOWS OF
a boat shed, heard the sounds of booted feet from somewhere behind her, and voices, slightly slurred and speaking in what she now recognized as Russian. Alex’s captors…the secret police. That would put four men on the
Caspar
against Tatarinov and his three cohorts. Four against four. Good enough odds, particularly if she could give them the advantage of surprise.

Her heart was banging against her ribs so hard she thought it must sound like a drumbeat, but despite that her mind was cool and clear, her resolution hard and diamond bright. She watched the two men approach the yawl but before they could reach it, Tatarinov had jumped down to the quay and was hurrying in the opposite direction, head huddled into the turned-up hood of his cloak.

The men glanced at him briefly, then climbed up on deck. Livia thought their step was a trifle unsteady. If they were drunk, so much the better.

“Get back in here.” Tatarinov’s rough voice coming from behind her in a fierce whisper made her jump. She’d seen him go off in the opposite direction but now he was in the boathouse behind her. She didn’t trouble to ask how he’d managed it.

“Was that the secret police?” she whispered, stepping back through the door into the dark space that smelled of wet canvas and tarred rope.

“Aye,” he said shortly. “You’re to get in here and stay here while we go about our business.”

“No,” Livia said with quiet determination. “I know Alex is on that ship, I heard him knocking, and I can guess what they did to him. I’m going to help you get him out…no, listen to me.” She held up a hand imperiously as he began to interrupt. “You’re four against four. If I distract them for you, you should be able to creep up on them.”

“Distract them?” He looked at her in mingled disdain and astonishment. “Don’t be stupid, woman. What can you do?”

Livia controlled her temper. She began to unbutton her jacket. “I need a bottle of liquor…rum…whisky…brandy, anything.” She shrugged the jacket off and began to fumble with the buttons of her shirt. “They have whores on quays, don’t they?” she demanded impatiently.

Tatarinov stared at her now with just the beginnings of interest. “Like as not,” he said. “What d’you intend?”

“I intend to stagger on board as a half-drunken whore offering my body and a bottle,” she told him succinctly. “I’m certain I can attract their attention long enough for you and your men to get in position.”

And now there was something akin to respect in his eyes as he watched her pull her hair loose of its snood and run her fingers through the curls until they stood out around her face in an unruly tangle.

“Fetch me drink, Tatarinov,” she demanded with the same impatience. “There’s taverns aplenty around here…a bottle of anything will do. I need to smell of drink myself.” She looked around, still fluffing out her hair. “I need some dirt, something to grub me up a little.”

“You swear you won’t move until I get back?” he asked somewhat uncertainly. There was no knowing what this manifestation of Princess Prokov would do next.

“I need that bottle,” she pointed out, rolling up her shirtsleeves. “I can’t do anything until you’re back with it. And there’s no point in my going on that ship without you and your men being in place, now is there?”

“I reckon not.” He nodded and disappeared behind her, presumably through a back door to the shed.

Livia rubbed some tar on her fingers and then smeared a thumb down her cheek. It would be the devil’s own job to wash off, but needs must. She ripped the bodice of her shirt artistically, showing more than a hint of cleavage, and added a smear of tar between her breasts for good measure. There was dust aplenty in the cobwebby reaches of the boat shed and she rubbed and smeared with as much art as she could in the circumstances. A mirror would have been a help.

Tatarinov came back with his three companions. Silently he handed her an open stone jar. Livia sniffed and her stomach roiled at the raw fumes. “What is it?”

“Rough stuff,” he told her, “but they’ll drink it. You’d best take a swig.”

Livia tried and choked as it burned down her gullet. She shook her head, for the moment speechless, and poured a little into the palm of her hand, dabbing it onto her pulse points at her throat and behind her ears, an eccentric perfume that in other circumstances might have amused her.

“All right, I’m ready,” she said when the burning in her throat had died down and her eyes had stopped watering. “Tatarinov, they’re expecting you to return to take passage with them, aren’t they?”

He nodded, watching her in the dim illumination from the lamps outside that filtered through the ill-fitting slats of the boat shed. “What d’you have in mind?”

“Well, if we both go on board together…arm in arm…I could be a whore you picked up in one of those taverns. We’re both drunk, I’m willing to spread my favors around…and we play it from there. Your…uh…your colleagues will watch and wait for their opportunity to join the fun.”

“A good plan, except that I am known to Arakcheyev’s men,” he informed her.

“Then I go alone,” Livia said, even though fear gripped her belly. It was a very different prospect to go into that lion’s den without Tatarinov’s supporting presence.

Tatarinov spoke quickly in Russian to the three men who had been staring in blank incomprehension at Livia since they’d entered the boat shed. There was a short burst of conversation among them, then Tatarinov nodded and turned back to Livia. “All right, let’s do it.”

He accompanied her to the back door of the boat shed. “Try to get them to the aft rail,” he said. “If you can get them with their backs to the docks even for just a moment, it will give us a big advantage.”

Livia nodded her understanding. “I think I can do that.”

“Princess…” He started to say something and then stopped, but to her astonishment she saw something approaching a smile soften his hard mouth, and then it was gone.

“Monsieur Tatarinov,” she responded, then went through the door onto the quay. She raised the stone jar and with a raucous, high-pitched, and distinctly vulgar laugh staggered towards the gangplank of the
Caspar.

“Who goes there?” one of the sailors shouted down as he spied her swaying across the cobbles.

“Just a friend,” she called back drunkenly, waving her stone jar. “Brought you some comfort if you’ve coin to give a girl.”

Ribald laughter greeted this and the four men gathered at the head of the gangplank. “Come on up, girlie. We’ve an hour t’go before the tide and coin aplenty for the right service.”

Livia waved her jar freely and giggled, tripping as she reached the top. Huge arms enveloped her and a mouth swamped hers in a beery kiss. She thought of Alex, helpless below, and she let herself fall into the part, flinging her arm around her embracer before reeling away from him to another one. They passed her from hand to hand, fumbling her breasts inside her shirt, pinching and pawing her backside, swigging from her stone jar.

She flung her arms wide and sang out with a drunken gurgle, “Come one, come all,” and they surged on her as she fell back against the aft railing, laughing, dodging kisses.

And as they surrounded her, Tatarinov and his men came silently up the gangplank, knives in their hands. Then one of Livia’s would-be clients heard or sensed something. He spun around with a shout of warning.

Livia rolled away from the rail. Tatarinov and his men had the advantage of surprise but the others were all armed, and drunk though they were, they all knew how to brawl. It was not going to be an easy victory for either side. Livia didn’t hesitate. She ducked low along the railing, trying to keep out of the line of sight, praying they were all too occupied to notice or remember her. She crossed the short strip of unprotected deck at a crouch and dived into the darkness of the hatchway, her heart racing, the sour taste of raw spirit rising in her mouth.

She half fell in her haste down the gangway and into the dark cabin. Alex was slumped in the chair, his head on his chest, a trickle of blood running sluggishly from a gash on his temple. They had hit him hard, and it looked to Livia as if the wound had been caused by a ring or something like it.

She would not allow herself pity, or horror, only action. She ran to him. He was unconscious, unmoving in his bonds. Desperately she looked around for water. There was none. But she still held the jar and what was left of its vile contents. She grabbed Alex’s head and pulled it back, pressing the jar to his lips, forcing some of the spirit into his mouth. His eyes shot open and stared at her for a moment without comprehension, then he shook his head, wincing with the pain.

“What in the name of all the gods are
you
doing here?” He sounded blurred and as disoriented as he felt.

“I’m at your side,” Livia said, fighting back tears of relief. “Where else would you expect me to be?”

A tiny spark of light showed behind his dazed blue gaze. “Nowhere else,” he said, and then choked as she forced more of the spirit between his lips.

“Good God, woman, what are you doing to me? I’m half dead already, do you want to finish the job?”

“Oh, Alex.” She kissed him on his bleeding mouth. “Are you all right?”

“At the moment, yes, but we won’t be for much longer. There’s a gutting knife on that locker in the bulkhead. I’ve been eyeing it for hours.”

Livia couldn’t believe how strong he sounded, but common sense also told her that such a surge of energy could not last long when a man had been so ill-treated. She fetched the gutting knife and sawed at the ropes at his wrists, then dropped to her knees to cut the bindings at his ankles. “Tatarinov—”

“On deck, I know. How many?”

“Four to four.”

“If they weren’t dealing with Arakcheyev’s puppies, I’d say Tatarinov and friends needed no help from me,” he said. “But…give me the knife, sweeting.”

Oh, how she had longed to hear that endearment again. “I have your pistol,” she said prosaically.

“You are a miraculous woman.” Alex took the pistol from her. His eyes held hers. “I love you, Livia. I have been so desperate to tell you that. So afraid you didn’t really believe me and I wouldn’t get the chance to convince you.”

“I am convinced,” she said. “You don’t need to tell me, my love.”

His broken lips moved in a painful smile, then it was all business again. His voice was clipped. “Follow me up, and keep out of the way. I mean it, Livia. You must make certain they can’t get hold of you. They will use you if they can and we will all be lost. The minute we get on deck you get down to the quay. Understand?”

“Certainly,” she said without expression.

“Stay right behind me.” He headed for the gangway and Livia followed him up on deck. Blood ran along the decking. Tatarinov and one of Arakcheyev’s men were engaged in a knife fight, both men bleeding, both as fierce as Cossacks fighting to the death on the steppes. One of the sailors was an inert heap on a pile of rope, the other was struggling with one of the men who had accompanied Tatarinov. Arakcheyev’s second man was in another death struggle with two of Tatarinov’s colleagues.

“Let’s bring this to an end,” Alex said under his breath. He raised his pistol and waited for a second until the man fighting with Tatarinov had his back to him for a moment. Then he shot him. Only Livia heard him say, “I owed you that, my friend.”

The sound of the gunshot brought everything to a sudden, almost surreal halt. The shot man crumpled slowly to the deck, and the second member of the secret police was taken off guard for only an instant, but enough for a man fighting two against one. He was quickly disarmed.

The sailor who remained on his feet dropped his cutlass as Tatarinov’s man slipped beneath his guard and drove his knife under his arm. And a strange silence fell. Even the sounds from the taverns had ceased. Only the sky remained as starlit and cheerful as before, shining brightly down upon the blood-slick deck and the twisted, crumpled forms.

Alex turned and saw Livia standing at the head of the gangplank. She had not been able to tear herself away from the scene and get down to the quay as he’d instructed. He came over to her and spoke softly but with vehemence. “You are a wonderful, amazing woman, you achieve miracles, and I adore you, but just this once you are going to do exactly what I tell you. Is that understood, Livia?”

She nodded, numbed by the speed and wholesale destruction of the last minutes.

“I mean it, Livia.” He took her shoulders, forcing her to look at him instead of the scene behind him. “Do you know where the horses are?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you are to go down to the quay now and wait with the horses.”

“What will you be doing?” But she knew the answer and she knew she didn’t want to hear it spoken.

“Take this and go.” He gave her the pistol; the barrel was still warm.

“Is it loaded?” she asked, puzzled.

“No, but only you will know that if anyone accosts you. Now go.” He turned her to the gangplank with a little shove between her shoulders. “We will make this right, sweeting. But you must go now.”

Livia went. There was an eerie quiet along the quay now, all the hubbub of the taverns faded as even the drunken revelers sought sleep in the few short hours before dawn. There had been no one to hear the pistol shot from the
Caspar,
but Livia thought that even if there had been, the sound would have gone unremarked in the general riotous chaos. She kept the pistol hidden in the folds of her skirt, finding it comforting even though it would do little good if she were threatened. But she was not really afraid. Now that Alex was safe, there was nothing really to fear.

She picked up her discarded jacket from the boat shed and hurried along the quay to the lean-to where the horses were tethered. They whickered softly when she came up to them, and Daphne threw up her beautiful silver head and nuzzled Livia’s shoulder.

“Not long now,” she whispered, burying her nose in the mare’s neck, inhaling the rich scent of horseflesh. She stroked down her flank and tried not to think of what was happening on the deck of the
Caspar.