Clear enough to know that she did trust him.
It wasn’t because she had to. It was simply because she did. Because she loved him. And maybe she didn’t know why he hadn’t told her he spoke Russian, but she knew him. When she looked at his face, she saw him reading from Miss Butterworth, scolding her for interrupting. She saw him sitting in her drawing room, insisting that she needed protection from the prince.
She saw him smiling.
She saw him laughing.
And she saw his eyes, open to his soul, as he told her he loved her.
“I trust you,” she whispered. He didn’t hear her, but it didn’t matter. She hadn’t said the words for him.
She’d said them for herself.
Harry had forgotten just how much he hated this. He’d fought in enough battles to know that some men thrived on danger. And he’d fought in more than enough to know that he was not one of them.
He could keep his head, act with calm and rational intent, but afterward, when safety had settled around him like a shroud, he began to shake. His breath came faster and faster, and more than once, he’d lost his belly.
He didn’t like fear.
And never in his life had he been more afraid.
The men who had taken Olivia were ruthless, or so Vladimir had told him when they were searching for her. They had served the ambassador for years and had been amply rewarded for their misdeeds. They were loyal and violent—a terrifying combination. The only consolation was that they were unlikely to hurt Olivia if they thought she was of value to Prince Alexei. But now that she had escaped, who knew how they might judge her? They might consider her soiled goods, completely expendable.
“It is not much farther now,” Vladimir said in Russian as they reached the bottom of the stairs. They had only to make it down the long gallery and over to the public section of the house. Once there, they would be safe. The party was still in full swing, and no one would dare attempt violence with several hundred of England’s most prominent citizens as witnesses.
“It’s not much farther,” Harry whispered to Olivia. Her hands were like ice, but she seemed to have regained most of her spirit.
Vladimir edged forward. They had taken the service stairs, which, unfortunately, ended at a closed door. He pressed his ear against the wood and listened.
Harry tugged Olivia closer.
“Now,” Vladimir said quietly. He opened the door very slowly, stepped out, then motioned for them to follow.
Harry took a step out, and then another, Olivia one pace behind.
“Quickly now,” Vladimir whispered.
They moved swiftly, silently, keeping to the walls, and then—
Crack!
Harry pulled hard on Olivia’s hand, his first instinct to shove her to safety, but there was nowhere, no shelter, no refuge. There was nothing but the wide-open hallway, and someone, somewhere, with a gun.
“Run!” Vladimir shouted.
Harry let go of Olivia’s hand—she’d be able to run faster with both arms free—and he yelled, “Go!”
And they ran. They tore down the hallway, skidding around the corner after Vladimir. From behind them, a voice shouted in Russian, ordering them to stop.
“Keep going!” Harry yelled to Olivia. Another shot rang out, and this one came close, slicing the air near Harry’s shoulder.
Or maybe it sliced his shoulder. He couldn’t tell.
“This way!” Vladimir ordered, and they followed him around another corner, and then down a hall. The shots had stopped, and there were no more footsteps racing behind them, and then, somehow, they were all tumbling into the ambassador’s office.
“Olivia!” her mother shrieked, and Harry watched as they embraced, as Olivia, who had not shed a tear, at least not one that he’d seen, collapsed in her mother’s arms, weeping.
Harry leaned against the wall. He felt dizzy.
“Are you all right?”
Harry blinked. It was Prince Alexei, looking at him with concern.
“You’re bleeding.”
Harry looked down. He was holding his shoulder. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing that. He lifted his hand and looked down at the blood. Strange, it didn’t hurt. Maybe that was someone else’s shoulder.
His knees buckled.
“Harry!”
And then…it wasn’t blackness, really. Why did everyone say things went to black when one fainted? This was red. Or maybe green.
Or maybe…
Two days later
Experiences I Hope Never to Repeat
By Olivia Bevelstoke
Olivia paused in her thoughts as she took a sip of tea, sent up to her bedroom along with a large plate of biscuits by her concerned parents. Really, where did one start with a list such as that? There was the being rendered unconscious （apparently with some sort of drug-soaked cloth to the mouth, she had later learned）。 And one could not forget the gag, or the tied ankles, or the tied hands.
Oh, and she could not leave off being fed steaming hot tea by the very same man responsible for all of the above. That one had been more of an affront to her dignity than anything else, but it would be rather high up the list.
Olivia was fond of her dignity.
Let’s see, what else…Being eye-and ear-witness to a door being kicked down. She had not enjoyed that. The expressions on her parents’ faces when she was finally brought back to their care—there had been relief, that was true, but that sort of relief required commensurate terror, and Olivia did not want anyone she loved to feel that way ever again.
And then, dear God, this had been the worst: watching Harry as he’d slumped to the floor of the ambassador’s office. She hadn’t realized that he’d been shot. How could she not have realized that? She’d been so busy sobbing in her mother’s arms, she hadn’t seen that he’d gone deathly pale, or that he was clutching his shoulder.
She’d thought she’d been afraid before, but nothing—nothing—could have compared to the terror of those thirty seconds between the time he went down and Vladimir assured her it was nothing but a flesh wound.
And indeed, that was all it was. True to Vladimir’s word, Harry was up and about the very next day. He’d arrived at her home while she was eating breakfast, and then he explained everything—why he hadn’t told her he could speak Russian, what he’d really been doing at his desk when she had spied upon him, even why he had called upon her with Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron that first crazy, wonderful afternoon. It hadn’t been to be neighborly, or because he had had any feelings for her other than disdain. He had been ordered to do so. By no less an authority than the War Office.
It was a lot to take in over coddled eggs and tea.
But she’d listened, and she’d understood. And now everything was settled, every loose end neatly tied. The ambassador had been detained, as had the men who worked for him, including her gray-haired captor. Prince Alexei had sent over a formal letter of apology, on behalf of the entire Russian nation, and Vladimir, true to his word, had disappeared.
And yet she hadn’t seen Harry in over twenty-four hours. He had left after breakfast, and she’d assumed he’d call again, but…
Nothing.
She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t even concerned. But it was odd. Quite odd.
She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on its saucer. Then she picked up both dishes and set them atop Miss Butterworth. Because she kept reaching for the book.