She longed for the hours to tick by so she could once again sit with him before the fire in their shared sitting room. It had become their ritual these past few nights since she’d cried in his arms. By day he administered laudanum to Mama, ensured plenty of hot tea was brought up to Marina, and apologized profusely for it not being brewed in a samovar. Svetlana divided her time between the two in an effort to rally their spirits while also trying not to suffocate under Sergey’s hovering. He was trying to be of help, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him he was smothering her. At night when the house finally settled, she and Wynn would find one another and silently settle into the unspoken need to be together before the comforts of the fire.
The night before he had broken their silence by asking if she needed anything. What could she say? Yes, I need you to take me away, far from this pain to a place I can no longer think beyond the length of your arms? The words failed to come just as they had the night she’d wept against him, and so she simply laid her head on his shoulder in answer of a silent dance they were making all their own after being off step for so long.
A tiny splotch of darkness lifted from the corner of her heart. Yes, all their own.
A masculine tread announced itself in the room. Wynn. Svetlana dashed the tear from her cheek.
“Oh, Wynn. I’m so glad you’re—” She turned around and stopped. “Sergey.”
Resplendent in a black jacket and trousers with a gray silk waistcoat, he cut a fine figure for one who had donned a mourning armband. He’d always been handsome in a sleek manner, sleek in every way save his curling black hair, which often drew many female looks of envy. His months on the run had cut away the softness from his aristocratic lifestyle to showcase the immaculate bone structure beneath. Striking to gaze upon, but not the face she longed to see.
“Here you are, lyubimaya.” Those striking bones softened with compassion. Sergey came to her with arms wide and pulled her against him. “This week has been terrible for you. For all of you. I’m sorry I was the one to bring you such pain, but please allow me to overcome this and bring you comfort.” Speaking in their customary French with the Russian endearment crooned in, he gently pressed her head to his shoulder. He still smelled of expensive spice and cedarwood, the notes stirring up memories of a ballroom waltz and the first time he offered her his arm for a stroll in Alexander Garden.
Svetlana gently pulled away. Those memories, while sweet to dwell upon, belonged in the past. “Seeing you again, dear friend, is great comfort indeed.”
Mustache twitching, his dark eyes swam with emotion. “‘Dear friend.’ How I used to delight when you called me that. Now I hear a distance in the phrase I once treasured.”
“I hope you treasure our friendship still.”
“I treasure any relationship I may have with you, Svetka.”
Stepping back to put distance between herself and the sentiments of memory his eyes tried to pull from her, she wriggled her fingers between the fern fronds and plucked out the dead leaves near the stem’s base.
“My apologies as hostess for not seeing to your needs these past few days. I trust you have been well cared for.”
“Do not think one minute for me. Your absence has been well justified and your staff more than gracious to my intrusion. Even the master of the house has offered me the hospitality of your stables should I fancy a ride during my stay.”
“You’ve spoken to Wynn?” Had they discussed Sergey’s embracing kiss in the front hall for all their gathered guests to witness? Or was everyone playing ignorant and forgetful about it? At least Sergey didn’t sport a black eye.
“Briefly. He was on his way to repair a peasant’s roof that had collapsed. Do you not have estate managers to see to such menial tasks? Most other days the duke has spent in his study, though in truth I do not mind the solitude after my harrowing travels.”
The images of a burning city and fleeing through dark woods scrolled through Svetlana’s mind. She could feel the heat burning overhead and the scratch of tree branches on her cheek. She sank onto a wooden bench with Celtic knots carved into the back.
“The horrors you’ve been through. What you did to save our lives. We will forever be in your debt of selflessness.”
He slid onto the bench next to her, gliding his arm along the back rest. “My deep affection for you and your family could allow me no less. I would change nothing to ensure your safety. The Bolsheviks are from the very pits of the devil himself, but no amount of their inflicted pain compares to what I would have felt if you had been captured. They have razed our beloved Russia to the ground.”
Svetlana shivered and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
“Is there no hope of ever returning?”
He shook his head. A black curl slipped over his forehead. “It is our home no longer. The Reds have turned it against us into something sinister. Something unrecognizable.” He pushed the errant curl back into place with a smooth hand. “Would you ever consider going back? If the country were to be returned to its former sanity, that is.”
“I should very much like to see Russia again. I miss the comforts of familiarity there and the white summer nights. There is nothing in all the world like her, but life has moved on without my permission. Decisions had to be made, and I cannot allow myself the remorse of looking back. My home is here now with a life I’m looking forward to with Wynn.”
His black eyebrows spiked. “In this barbaric country? It does not suit the entitlements of a princess.” He gestured sharply to the land beyond the frosted windows as if to point out the error in her assessment before frowning at the dead leaves curled in her palm. “Neither do dirty hands.”
She tried not to allow his words to bristle her. Things were different now. She was different. No longer did she live in Petrograd with its confining rules.
“Dirty hands suit me in Scotland. The land is none so harsh after a time. I’ve learned to find a beauty in its wildness.” She looked through the window to the rolling hills beyond. Come summer they would be covered in purple heather. Wynn claimed they could stroll across the tops, so thick was it. “The Revolution taught me much, and I will not take for granted my position again. If I can use it toward good, I will.”
“You did good in St. Peters—gah, Petrograd. Will we ever grow accustomed to that new name? I heard talk of the Bolsheviks wanting to change it again to honor their leader, Lenin.”
“The only good I did was self-serving or what reflected well in the social parlors so the Dalsky name glittered even brighter. What good did that do when the Revolution struck? It made me an outcast, a thing to be hated, starved, and flung out into the cold. I will never be that again, nor allow anyone in my care to be so.”
On the back of the bench behind her, Sergey’s fingers tapped an erratic rhythm as if his thoughts proved too restless for containment.
“That is a peasant’s way of thinking. Share in the misery and all that. One must look out for themselves.”
“A decent person does not look out only for themselves.”
His fingers stopped as he considered her for a long moment.
“It seems the Revolution has changed us both. Me to hardness and you to tenderness. I think, perhaps, you are the victor in this metamorphosis, and I should heed your lead. I am your humble student, my lady.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head in courtly manner.