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“Governor Shurikovsky,” Bramwell said anxiously, “I hope you have not been too displeased by the interruption of our banquet.”

Shurikovsky's slanted eyes fastened on Luke. “I wanted to see the Englishman.”

Luke was silent, though his muscles tensed with challenge. God knew why the governor wanted to have a look at him. He felt an instinctive dislike for the man, whose eyes were as hard and dark as pebbles.

The aide spoke impudently, while the two men stared at each other. “What a strange tale this is! Prince Mikhail Angelovsky is murdered, the young woman who is responsible ‘dies’ in prison, several months later she is brought back to Russia very much alive, and now there is an English husband who wants to take her away again.”

“You will not succeed,” Shurikovsky said to Luke, his voice thin. “I speak for the government when I say that someone will pay for Angelovsky's death. Atonement must be made.”

“Not by my wife,” Luke replied softly. “Not in this life.”

Before another word could be said, Luke was gone in an instant, heading like a fast-moving storm to the Angelovsky Palace.

The Angelovsky residence was even more magnificent than the Kurkov Palace. The doors were decorated with gold, and the windows were bordered with strips of engraved silver. Works by painters such as Gainsborough and Van Dyck were framed in gold and precious gems. Chandeliers of crystal and enamel gave the impression of glittering floral arrangements hanging from the ceiling. Luke was privately astonished by the opulence around him. The queen of England didn't live in this kind of splendor. Or with this kind of security. Uniformed chevaliers, cossacks, and Circassian officers were everywhere, lining the entrance hall, the marble staircase, and every doorway.

To Luke's surprise, his demand to be taken to Prince Angelovsky was obeyed quickly and without question. Biddle was more than happy to be left waiting in the entrance hall, and Luke was led to a downstairs gentleman's room filled with tobacco smoke. The walls were covered with a collection of antique broadswords, rapiers, and Slavic axes with wickedly curved blades. In the center of the room was a turntable laden with decanters of liquor. A group of officers and aristocrats lounged in the room, sitting, standing, smoking, and talking. They all stared at the newcomer.

One of them disengaged himself from the group and stepped forward. He said something in Russian, saw that Luke didn't understand, and switched to lightly accented English. “What do you want?”

It had to be Angelovsky. He was younger than Luke had expected, a man in his early twenties. He had startling yellow-gold eyes, a face of stark masculine beauty, and the exotic animallike quality Alicia Ashbourne had described. Luke had never wanted to kill someone so badly. A tremor of bloodlust went through him, but somehow he controlled it.

“I want to see my wife,” he managed to say.

Angelovsky looked startled for a moment. He stared at Luke closely. “Stokehurst? Somehow I thought you'd be an old man.” The corner of his mouth twitched with insolent amusement. “Welcome to Russia, cousin.”

Luke was silent, clenching his teeth until his jaw trembled.

Seeing the faint movement, Nikolas mistook it for awe, perhaps even fear. He smiled into Luke's expressionless face. “You've wasted your time. The prisoner isn't allowed visitors. Take my advice—go back to your country and get a new wife.”

He was taken by surprise as Luke moved with blinding speed, shoving him against the wall and snarling at him like a rabid wolf. The sharp point of the silver hook pressed into his chest until a drop of blood welled from the nick it had made.

Luke's voice was a scraping whisper. “Let me see her…or I'll use this to dig your heart out.”

Nikolas stared at him for a moment, and then bared his teeth in a feral laugh of approval. “You have balls of stone, to threaten me in my own house, in a room full of weapons and soldiers! Very well, you may visit Anastasia. No harm will come of it. She'll still be mine when you leave. Now, if you please…” He glanced down at the spreading bloodstain on his shirt. Luke dislodged the stinging point of the hook and lowered his arm.

Taking a linen napkin, Nikolas pressed it to the sore spot on his chest. Still smiling, he spoke to a soldier. “Motka Yuriyevich, show my new cousin to the prisoner's quarters. And don't get too close—he may bite.”

There were a few appreciative chuckles, for the Russians admired nothing more than brute force coupled with a strong will. To find that combination in an Englishman tickled their sense of humor.

Tasia's suite consisted of a small antechamber and a bedroom, both luxuriously furnished. She reclined on a sofa framed with lacy Russian woodcarving. Although she had not been allowed visitors, she had received a few tear-blotched, loving notes from her mother, Marie. Nikolas had allowed Marie to send a few of Tasia's old gowns from the Kapterev Palace. Tasia wore one of them now, a girlishly styled violet silk with a full skirt, puffed sleeves, and white lace trimming. Dully she sorted through a pile of French novels. So far her attempts at reading hadn't gone well. She found herself going over the same pages a dozen times.

She heard a key turning in the lock. The door opened and closed. Knowing it was one of the servants with an afternoon meal tray, Tasia kept her gaze on the book. “Put it on the table next to the window,” she said in Russian.

Her order was met with silence. She looked up with a coldly questioning frown…and stared into a pair of smiling blue eyes. Her husband spoke in a rough voice. “I told you I didn't plan to sleep apart from you.”

Tasia gave a cry of disbelief and flew across the room, flinging herself against him.

Luke laughed and caught her in the air, locking one arm around her narrow waist. Lowering her feet to the floor, he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder. “God, I've missed you,” he muttered, while she wriggled and tried to crawl closer.

“Luke, Luke…Oh, you came for me! Are you really here? No, it must be a dream!” Tasia slid her hands behind his head and pulled his mouth down, kissing him with violent passion. She reveled in his familiar smell, his taste, the solid strength of his body.

Somehow he managed to tear his mouth from hers. “We have to talk,” he muttered.

“Yes…yes…” Tasia wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed again, deep, yearning, heedlessly absorbed in each other. He pushed her against the wall, twisting his mouth over hers. Their tongues touched, played, slid hotly, while his fingers spread over her breast and molded the tender shape. Tasia nuzzled into the side of his neck, licking at the touch of salt on his skin. He groaned softly, urging her against the wall with the pressure of his aroused body.

“Are you all right?” he managed to ask, after smothering her with a brutally hard kiss.

She nodded and smiled unsteadily. “How is Emma? I've been so worried—”

“She wants you to come home as soon as possible.”

“Oh, if only…” Tasia began with aching longing, but suddenly she jumped in excitement and clutched his shirt collar in her fists. “Luke, I remembered everything on the ship! I know what happened to Mikhail! I didn't do
anything
. I stumbled on the scene at the worst possible moment, and I saw the real murderer. It wasn't me!”

His eyes narrowed. “Who did it?”

“Count Samvel Shurikovsky. He and Mikhail were lovers.”

“Shurikovsky,” Luke repeated, stunned. “The governor? I just saw him!”

“But how—”

“Never mind, just tell me everything.”

Tasia related the story of all she had seen and heard the night of the murder, while Luke listened intently. His hand slid between the wall and her spine, keeping her pressed close to him. “But Nikolas doesn't believe me,” she finished. “He
wants
me to be guilty, and he won't hear any evidence to the contrary. Count Shurikovsky is a very important man—the companion-favorite of the tsar. I'm certain that the servants knew he was in the palace that night, but they were afraid to say anything. Perhaps they were threatened or bribed to keep silent.”

Luke was quiet, keeping his thoughts to himself. Tasia found it hard to believe he was actually there in St. Petersburg. The knowledge that he had followed her caused a burst of love and heat in her chest. She nestled against him with a sound of pleasure, and his arms tightened.

“Have you been eating?” he asked, kissing the edge of her temple where silken wisps of hair had escaped her pinned braids.

“Oh, yes, I have a very good appetite. They've sent up all my favorites: cabbage soup, blini with caviar, and the most wonderful mushrooms in cream. And big bowls of
kasha
.”

“I won't ask what
kasha
is,” Luke said wryly. He surveyed her face, gently touching the dark circles beneath her eyes as if he could make them disappear. “You haven't gotten much rest.”

Tasia shook her head. “They'll never let me go,” she said softly. “I don't think there's anything you can do, Luke.”

“There's a great deal I can do,” he corrected gruffly. “I'm going to leave for a little while. Try to sleep until I come back.”

“No,” she said, clutching at him. “Don't leave yet…or I'll think I just imagined you. Hold me.”

Luke enfolded her in a hard embrace. “My love,” he said, his breath warm in the hollow beneath her ear. “My sweet, precious wife. Don't you know I would fight the world for you?”

She laughed shakily. “I think you may have to.”

“The day of our wedding, I calculated the number of nights I was going to have with you. At least ten thousand. A week's worth has been stolen from me. Nothing is going to keep us apart for the rest.”

“Don't…” Her fingertips came to his mouth. “You're tempting fate.”

“I'll tell you what your fate is.” Luke pulled back and stared into her eyes. “Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-three nights spent in my arms. And I'll have them, Lady Stokehurst, no matter what it takes.”

Sitting on the carpeted steps with one leg propped up, Nikolas watched as Luke approached. “Now you've seen that she's being treated well. Food, books, furniture—”

“It's still a prison,” Luke said coldly.

“Did Tasia tell you her story about Samvel lgnatyich?” Nikolas smiled at Luke's blank look, and added, “Count Shurikovsky.”

Pausing at the top of the steps, Luke looked down at him. “She told me you've decided not to believe her.”

“There was never any relationship between Shurikovsky and Misha.”

“Have you questioned Shurikovsky?” Luke asked.

“That would accomplish nothing, except to discredit me. It is a desperate lie that Tasia concocted in order to make us all look like fools.”

“Then why wouldn't she come out with this story in court, during the trial? She didn't lie then. She's not lying now. But you'd rather send an innocent woman to her death than face an unpleasant truth.”

“You dare mention the word ‘truth’?” Nikolas's voice was suddenly thick. He stood and faced Luke squarely. He was just as tall as Luke, but with a far different build. Luke had a broad-shouldered, muscular body, whereas Nikolas was wiry, flexible, catlike. “I'd like to shove it back down your throat,” Nikolas said. “Go question Shurikovsky with my blessing. I want to see your face when you realize what your wife has done.”

Luke turned to leave.

“Wait,” Nikolas muttered. “Don't try to see Shurikovsky now. Go tonight. After the sun sets. It is the Russian way to do these things privately, you understand?”

“I understand. Russians like to do everything in secrecy.”

“We prefer the word ‘discretion,’” Nikolas said mildly. “A virtue you don't seem to possess, cousin. I will go with you tonight. Shurikovsky doesn't speak any English. You'll need someone to translate.”

Luke gave a harsh laugh. “You're the last person I'd take with me.”

“You're a fool if you think I've persecuted your wife for personal reasons. If I could be proved wrong—if I came across evidence that Tasia has been unjustly accused—I would kiss the hem of her gown and beg her forgiveness. All I want is for my brother's murderer to be punished.”

“You want a scapegoat,” Luke said caustically. “You don't care who it is, as long as someone's blood is spilled in exchange for Mikhail's.”

Nikolas's shoulders stiffened, but he showed no reaction. “I will go with you this evening, Stokehurst, to expose Tasia's lies and remove all doubt that she killed Misha.”

Luke spent the afternoon harassing Lord Bramwell and his secretary until they began to write an official list of complaints about the mistreatment and illegal imprisonment of the wife of an English citizen. At sunset Luke returned to the Angelovsky Palace. Nikolas greeted him while casually munching on an apple. The fruit was unusual, with pure white flesh and a translucent emerald skin. Nikolas smiled as he noticed Luke's interest. “A Russian glass-apple,” he said, pulling one from his pocket. “I'm quite partial to them. Would you care to try one?”

Although he hadn't eaten all day, Luke shook his head.

Nikolas laughed. “The English are so proud,” he mocked. “You are hungry, but you will not take food from my hand. It's only an apple, cousin.” He tossed it toward Luke.

Luke caught it easily. “I'm not your cousin.” He took a bite of the crisp, sugar-sweet fruit.

“But you are. Tasia is the granddaughter of my father's cousin. And now you are connected by marriage. Russians are very aware of all family ties, no matter how distant.”

“Aware, but not loyal to them,” Luke sneered.

“Murder does tend to put a damper on family relationships.”

Exchanging a glance of mutual loathing, they went to the gleaming black carriage outside. The ride to Shurikovsky's home was excruciating, the silence infused with violent undertones. The streets were quiet. Warm light glowed from the windows of the homes and palaces they passed.

“Most likely Shurikovsky is with the tsar this evening,” Nikolas said. At Luke's silence, he continued casually “They are very close, almost like brothers. When the tsar goes to his country palace,
Tsarskoe Selo
, he always insists that Shurikovsky is part of the royal entourage. The governor is a man of great power and cunning.”