The Brigadier's Daughter (21 page)

‘Sasha?' Reid gently whispered her name, as they stood in front of Leonardo da Vinci's
The Litta Madonna
. ‘Shall we move on? We've been standing here for ten minutes already.'

‘Oh!' Sasha shook her head, brooding inwardly on her thoughts, avoiding his gaze as they walked on down an echoing corridor with a dozen tall windows overlooking the Winter Palace canal, the walls adorned with frescoes copied from the Vatican, interspersed on one side with gleaming mirrors that reflected the light and the intricate artwork of the colourful, gold-edged frescoes.

Reid looked over her shoulder at the now rather creased and crumpled list in her left hand. ‘What's next?'

He tried not to sound bored, to be interested for her sake, but he hoped that soon they would be done and they could go home. He wondered what Cook had prepared for afternoon tea and was quite looking forwards to sitting down in the drawing room with a hot cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches and cake. Glancing at Sasha, he noticed that she had become very quiet, and rather distant. Looking up and down, he made sure they were alone, before turning and catching her about the waist, pushing her into the deep recess of a doorway, the massive enamel-and-gilt doors closed.

‘Reid!' Sasha exclaimed, glancing up at him as she felt the weight and strength of his warm body, pressing her up against the door. ‘What are you doing?'

He held her firmly with one arm about her waist, the other above her head, leaning against the door frame, effectively penning her in and there was no escape. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing!'

‘Sasha, you have something on your mind, now spit it out!'

She bent her head back, aware of the feel of his body against hers, his hard chest and his muscular legs a delight to her senses,
and the scent of him quite filled her nose and seeped into every pore of her body. Instead of speaking, she reached up and clasped his face between her two hands, her touch gentle and soft, her small fingers slightly splayed against the rough contours of his jaw. He looked at her, taken slightly by surprise, then standing on tip-toe Sasha reached up and pressed her mouth to his, in a rather awkward, inexperienced kiss, but one that made him groan with pleasure as he felt the sweet velvet of her tender pink lips against his own firm male ones.

His hand slid to the back of her head, supporting her delicate neck as he stooped over her and parted her mouth with the force of his own, taking control and guiding her into the sweetest kiss of passion she had ever known. His tongue swept within, tasting, possessing, and their breath came in sharp gusts from their noses as they clung to each other. Sasha's hands slid around his broad, strong back, moving upwards and pulling him tight against her, so that she could feel his body and his arousal, delighted with the effect that she had on him, and the pleasure of his deep, intimate kiss.

They were lost in their own little world as time passed by, and neither of them wanted to end the intimacy of their locked mouths, but then they heard the tap of heels and the murmur of voices at the far end of the corridor, and Reid pulled away. His glance lingered on her flushed face and swollen lips for a moment, with a slight smile, as Sasha hurried to straighten her bodice and the little hat perched on the side of her head amidst loosened hair. Then he took her hand and led her away, his fingers laced intimately between her own.

They did not speak until, by mutual accord, they had left the museum and were walking homewards across Palace Square. Reid glanced sideways at Sasha, who had her head down and was walking briskly at his side.

‘What was that for?' he asked gently, watching the blush flare on her cheeks.

She shrugged, turning her head away slightly.

‘Sasha?' He stopped, pulling her to a halt in front of him. ‘Is something wrong?'

She bowed her head, considering what to say to him, and then lifted it quickly. ‘Reid, do you still want me?'

‘What a strange question!'

‘Do you?'

He studied her face for a moment before replying, realising that something must have upset her. ‘Has Irena said something to you?'

‘About what?' she gasped, a frown creasing her brows as she gazed up at him in alarm.

‘I don't know, about, well…' He shrugged, slightly embarrassed. ‘About being a virgin.'

‘It's not that, it's not about me, it's you I am wondering about. Have you— That is…?' Sasha floundered, stumbling on unknown words for a subject she didn't know very much about. ‘Perhaps you have become bored, and there is someone more…experienced, like Irena, except not Irena because I know you don't want her, but—'

‘Sasha, what on earth are you talking about?' Reid took hold of her by both shoulders, forcing her to stand still and look at him.

‘Count Kirovsky said you were popular with the ladies.'

‘Ah.' At last Reid understood, and he smiled wryly with a little shake of his head, lifting her chin with a crooked forefinger. ‘I haven't been to bed with other women, if that's what you are wondering. Yes, there were girls in the tavern, and they were all over us, but I did not get intimate with anyone. Why would I, when I have you waiting for me at home?'

‘Well, we've never—'

‘Not yet. But we will. When the time is right.'

They smiled at each other, knowing that waiting for that moment, when the time
was
right, would only make it all the more sweeter. They linked arms and walked homewards, Reid expressing how ravenous he was and how he hoped there was
a good tea waiting for them. Sasha laughed, looking up at him, at this handsome, charming man who had come into her life so suddenly and filled it with this strange unknown feeling of…happiness.

 

That evening they were sitting comfortably in the drawing room, at peace with one another's company as Reid caught up with some work that he had missed while spending his afternoon at the Hermitage, reading reports on the political situation. There was a lot to digest with the Russians now at war with Turkey and still meddling with the Afghans, as well as unrest in their own backyard, particularly from a revolutionary group called Narodnaya Volya, the People's Will, who would like nothing better than to murder the Tsar and do away with all aristocracy. He glanced across to where Sasha sat curled up in the corner of the sofa, next to him. She had taken her shoes off and leaned her cheek on one palm as she read a periodical, and had been quietly absorbed for a good half-hour.

‘What are you reading that's so fascinating?' he asked, stretching out a hand to slide it under the hem of her skirt, absently caressing the delicate bones of her ankle.

Sasha looked up, shivers of delight tingling from her ankle all the way up her leg and into her body. ‘It's
The Russian Messenger
—they have another instalment of Leo Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina
. It's quite fascinating—have you read it?'

‘No,' Reid replied drily, ‘not quite to my taste.'

‘And those boring reports are?'

‘They are not boring.'

‘Neither is Tolstoy.'

‘Then we must agree to disagree.'

She met his smile with one of her own, and bent her head, eager to discover whether Anna would succumb to the charms of Vronsky and allow herself to be seduced, but it was very difficult to concentrate on anything except the feel of Reid's fingers moving on her ankle and her own desire to be seduced!
She shifted slightly, and smiled to herself as she studied his face from the corner of her eye, but he was once again engaged in reading the reports scattered about on the sofa and the floor. She sighed and was about to ask him to stop when Good knocked on the door and announced that they had a visitor. It was John Hartley from the Embassy. He hurried into the room, panting slightly as though he had just been running, which he had. His normally impeccable grooming was all out of sorts, his hair and tie askew and Sasha noticed the cloth of his trousers over one knee was torn and dirty. With one accord both she and Reid rose from the sofa.

‘John, are you all right?' Reid enquired politely.

‘Oh, yes, thank you, it's not me you have to be concerned about.'

‘What's happened?'

‘It's the Ambassador, or should I rather say, it's the Tsar—well, actually, it's both!'

Reid turned to his colleague and ushered him to a chair, nodding to Good, who left the room and closed the door. Reid went to the drinks cabinet and poured John a shot of brandy into a crystal glass. He handed it to him and Sasha wondered whether to ring for some tea, but stood quietly as the two men talked in earnest tones.

‘Someone has tried to assassinate the Tsar—' John took a swig of his brandy ‘—and damn well nearly got us, too!'

John went on to explain how he and Sir Stanley had been visiting the Pavlovsky Barracks to finalise arrangements for the Sunday parade when, quite out of the blue, Alexander II had arrived.

‘He does like to do that, you know, turn up unexpectedly and mix with the troops, although there were so many Imperial Guardsmen that you could barely squeeze anyone else in the room. We had tea and a rather good evening, the Russians singing and in good humour for a change, but then as we were going down the steps to make our way home, some lunatic lunges
out of the dark and starts firing shots!' John paused as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, before taking another sip of his brandy. ‘I tell you, it was mayhem! People were ducking and diving all over the place. I pushed Sir Stanley to the ground, but not quite quickly enough—he's taken a shot in the shoulder.'

‘You could have both been killed!' exclaimed Sasha, aghast.

‘Indeed, but fortunately it wasn't us he was after. The Guardsmen grabbed the Tsar and hauled him back inside, a few of them gave chase after the gunman, but the devil was gone quick as a ferret down a rabbit hole. If they'd got hold of him, I wouldn't like to imagine his fate.' He glanced at Sasha then, remembering the presence of a lady. ‘Well, suffice to say, it was all over very quickly.'

‘Damn, I missed it all!' Reid growled, rising impatiently to his feet and pacing about, before swinging to face John. ‘Where is he now? Sir Stanley, I mean.'

‘He's back at the Embassy; they wanted to take him to the Palace to be attended by one of the Tsar's own physicians, but I thought it best to bring him home and get our own Dr Watts to take care of him.'

‘Good. Well, we'd better get over there. Sasha, would you come, too, and be of assistance to Lady Cronin?'

‘Of course,' Sasha murmured, and hurried to fetch her coat and gloves.

 

It was very late by the time they returned home again from the Embassy, secure in the knowledge that Sir Stanley had received nothing more than a grazing wound and that Lady Cronin had not gone to pieces at the thought of her husband almost being murdered. Indeed, she had been quite calm and collected, and insisted that there was nothing more either Reid or Sasha could do by staying all night. Several burly Household Cavalry men accompanied them on their return journey, a mere few minutes' walk, but no one was taking any chances.

 

In the next few days a palpable tension was to be felt in the city, with soldiers and policemen on every street corner, hunting for the man who had dared to point a gun at the Tsar. A description and rough charcoal drawing of the wanted assassin was distributed on printed leaflets by the police, but, as on previous occasions, the culprit had melted away like snow on a spring morning.

The excitement died down, and life carried on as before, and Sasha wondered whether the assassin would be aware that he had accomplished nothing and be ready to make another attempt. She asked Reid if the Tsar would not appear in public for a while and the Sunday parade would be cancelled, but Reid assured her that the Russian Emperor would not skulk behind locked doors and the Sunday parade was a spectacle not to be missed by anyone. It was to be held on the Field of Mars, adjacent to the Pavlovsky Barracks, situated in the heart of the city between the Summer Garden and Court Quay.

 

On Sunday morning Sasha travelled in a carriage with Lady Cronin and other ladies of the Embassy and took her place in the Royal Pavilion overlooking the massive parade ground. There were thousands of people present, not to mention thousands upon thousands of soldiers from all parts of Russia gathered on the Field itself. There were several ranks of Imperial Guard mounted on their magnificent horses and looking very proud and fearsome, as well as Cossacks from the Steppes in their bright red tunics, baggy black pantaloons and fur shakos. There were noble princes from Georgia, Mongols on sturdy ponies, Tcherkesses and Persians and foot soldiers from every regiment.

Sasha stared in awe from where she sat with all the guests, ambassadors from most European countries and Russian aristocracy. She searched for Reid, who was mounted and on the Field, along with other members of the British military waiting to pay their respects to their host, Alexander II, but she could
not find him amongst the seething mass of horses, lances fluttering with flags, and the many-coloured uniforms. She looked about to see if she could spot Irena, but either she could not see her or she was not attending. Sasha had noticed that Irena very rarely attended any public functions, particularly functions in honour of the Tsar.

The Tsar arrived mounted on a grey stallion, followed in an open landau by the Empress Maria. The many bands of each regiment thundered into the national anthem, the whole Field a quivering mass of waving flags as the Tsar thundered past at a slow gallop, his escort riding alongside in haphazard fashion as the Tsar darted about, pausing to speak here and there to his soldiers.

It was a magnificent and unusual spectacle, a day that Sasha would never forget, but at the same time it was almost overwhelming and a little frightening. She was glad when at last it was over and their carriage came to collect them. She climbed inside and seated herself beside Lady Cronin with a small sigh of relief.