At Her Service

  He’d seized the woman as a precaution—a hostage always beneficial in situations like this. But deprived as he was now of any possible assistance, she had become indispensable to his escape. Not only would she serve as his shield, he would take this woman with him as he leaped from the train.

  She could cushion his fall.

  Moving backward, he dragged Aurore with him toward the doorway.

  Aurore had no illusions about the man’s intentions. She was disposable once her usefulness was at an end—that occasion fast approaching.

  Darley was waiting for a clear shot or, that lacking, a shot. He too was aware of the diminishing time frame.

  Knowing she had only seconds left as they approached the open doorway, Aurore gathered her strength. Gasping for air, she managed to twist marginally within the man’s harsh grip and jerk her knee upward into his crotch.

  She might have been a fly for all his reaction to her blow.

  But for a millisecond he was distracted, and in that fleeting moment Darley’s hand swept up and a second later a large caliber round buried itself between the man’s eyes.

  Darley was already sprinting down the length of the car when the man’s shriek rent the air. As the brawny assassin staggered backward through the doorway, his powerful upper body twisting in free fall toward the platform rail, his arm was still ruthlessly clamped around Aurore’s throat in a death grip.

  Terror-stricken that Aurore would be flung off the train with the man’s fatal momentum, Darley flew headlong through the doorway.

  The dying man teetered for a moment on the cusp of the rail, and as he tumbled backward into nothingness, Darley frantically lunged. Catching Aurore’s outstretched arm, his fingers closed like a vise on her forearm. She hung for a moment like a rag doll in the wind before he seized her other arm in a firm, hard grip. “Now,” he grunted, as the forest rushed by them in a blur, and bracing his feet for leverage, he swung her up over the rail with adrenaline-spiked strength.

  Pulling her against his body, he pinioned her in his embrace, and trembling, she clung to him, their hearts beating like drums, the pale moon shining above indifferent to the crisis only narrowly averted.

  “It’s over,” he whispered.

  “All of them?” she croaked, her windpipe bruised, aching.

  “Every one gone,” he gently replied.

  Still shaking like a leaf, she didn’t ask for details, content to know that there was certainty in Darley’s use of the word gone.

  When Aurore’s breathing returned to a semblance of normal, Darley quietly said, “I’m leaving you with Vasile and Tereza for a few minutes. They’re both armed. I want to check the rest of the passengers. It’s only a precaution,” he added, as she gazed at him with alarm. “We’ll be back soon.”

  She wished to say, Don’t go, but knew as well as he that he had to ensure another assault force wasn’t on the train. “Hurry back,” she said instead.

  Kubitovitch heard the sound of compartment doors opening and shutting in ever-closer proximity and quickly gathered up the envelopes of money he’d packed in his valise. Stuffing the packets into his coat pockets, he eased open the door of his compartment and glanced up and down the passageway. A group of men were talking to a conductor at the far end of the car. There wasn’t time to debate his options. He slipped out the door and ran.

  Stephan noticed the running figure and nudged Darley.

  Darley took one look, shouted, “Stop!” and fired.

  Kubitovitch had zagged and ducked at the shouted order, the diversionary tactic second nature after years in the shadows, and Darley’s shot parted the agent’s straw-colored hair at the top of his head, leaving a bloody furrow.

  Not about to stop, too petrified to even feel the pain of his wound, Kubitovitch literally ran for his life, slamming through the doorway separating the cars and jumping from the metal stairs without thought. Tucking into a roll—one of the lessons in escape maneuvers learned in the academy—he hit the ground in a tumbling somersault and landed by chance in the soft muck of a marsh. His clothing was somewhat the worse for wear from his swift decamping, but more significantly, he was still alive. Which, he suspected, was not the case with the Bulgarians.

  As he rose to his knees and surveyed his position, a rivulet of blood slid down his forehead, and for the first time he felt the sharp, throbbing pain. Cautiously examining the top of his head with his fingertips, he realized he was an enormously lucky man. The shot had grazed his head, slicing through the skin but doing little enough damage as far as he could tell. Coming to his feet, he stood ankle-deep in marsh water and muck and debated his next move.

  The train was miles away by now, those who would harm him becoming more distant by the minute. He still had four thousand roubles left after paying the Bulgarians, an auxiliary plan to fall back on, only a minor wound and a few bruises.

  Returning to Russia was out of the question, of course. The operation had been an unequivocal failure.

  He glanced up at the moon to get his bearings and began walking west.

  When Darley returned, Vasile and Tereza went off to bed.

  “I won’t be able to sleep,” Aurore said, “but you sleep if you wish. I’m not frightened, only restless.”

  “Do you want to sit here?” Darley indicated the salon with a flick of his fingers. “Or would you rather lie down? The other bedroom is undamaged.”

  “Here, I think.” There was a feeling of safety in the well-lit space, the image of the man smashing through her bedroom window still looping through her brain.

  “Would you like coffee or tea—something to eat?”

  “Don’t bother Vasile. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll get us coffee and one of those apricot pastries.” Darley began moving toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Turning, he held out his hand and smiled. “I’m going to keep you in my pocket until we arrive in Paris.”

  “That would be very nice.” She slid her fingers through his.

  “They really are all gone now, darling,” he said, wishing to reassure her, gently squeezing her fingers. “Kubitovitch was the last of them and he jumped off the train. With any luck, he’s dead from the fall.”

  She smiled. “You may tell me that with great frequency for the rest of our journey.”

  “Maybe I could think of another way to take your mind off your recent ordeal,” he said, smiling faintly. “When you’re feeling better, of course.”

  “Food would help, I think. I’m starved. It must be the aftershock.”

  “Food first, my lady. Let me amaze you with my expertise in the kitchen,” he teased.

  She was amazed as it turned out. Coming from a home where food was prepared by servants, she was at a loss in the kitchen. Darley, on the other hand, made excellent coffee, and a tasty dish of eggs and peppers served on bread he stuck on a knife and toasted over an open flame.

  “There is no end of your talents,” she murmured, having finished her eggs and toast to the last morsel. “Do you perhaps play the violin as well?”

  He grinned and pushed his plate aside. “No, but I play in other ways you might enjoy.”

  She smiled. “As to that, I am most grateful for your ability to make me forget. There has been too much malicious mischief about with the war and all.”

  “We reach civilization soon. The mischief will cease.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he lied. “I’m sure.”

  She set aside her napkin and came to her feet. “In that case then, let us think only of pleasure and”—she grinned—“particularly my pleasure.”

  He laughed. “You’re feeling better, I see.”

  “You always make me feel ever so good, darling Gazi,” she softly said. And to that end, she wished to delight in him while she could—a thoroughly selfish impulse, but better that than a life of regret.

  Chapter 24

  Three days later, Darley and Aurore stood on the train plat
form at the Gare l’Est in Paris.

  Darley should have been completely fucked out and more than ready to say good-bye. But instead, he was very close to saying to Aurore, Why don’t I see you home?

  A lavender twilight colored the city and sky beyond the train sheds, the March air was cool, the bustle of travelers passing by them on the platform an unseen flurry of movement. Everyone was in a hurry, travelers in a rush to reach their homes or businesses, their families and friends—their mistresses. This was Paris after all.

  “We should find you a cab,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  They had spoken briefly on the train about their plans. Darley would continue on to Calais from Paris. He was going home to England for a visit, and after that he wasn’t sure, he’d said. He didn’t explain that his life went where it may—or at least it had for eighteen years. And at thirty-eight, he considered himself too old to change.

  Aurore was looking forward to seeing her brother once again, and as soon as the war came to an end, she hoped to go home. Unlike Darley, she had spoken of her uncertain future—but without melancholy. She had become reconciled to the fact that outside events were in control. At least for now.

  She suddenly wrinkled her nose. “What a terrible odor.” Strange—the smell of roasting chestnuts had never struck her as unpleasant before. Perhaps the long train trip was to blame—the ever-present, belching smoke when one went outside or opened a window, the bouncing ride over marshland or mountain terrain, the occasional odd item of food. Taste some so Vasile won’t cry. He’s been cooking all day, Darley had said once as she’d hesitated over a strange dish brought in by Vasile. I’m only kidding, he’d added at the look on her face, but try some anyway. It’s good.

  But unlike Vasile’s eastern European dishes, this smell was making her nauseated. She must be coming down with something.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Her face was white.

  “I don’t know. Is that smell disgusting to you?”

  “The chestnuts?”

  She nodded. “The oil must be rancid.”

  She was asking the wrong person; he liked the smell. “It could be.” But he politely said, “Why don’t we go inside and get away from the odor. You should sit down. You look pale. Would you like me to get you a tisane or a lemonade—a glass of wine perhaps?”

  Clamping her gloved hand over her mouth, Aurore swallowed hard. “Please, don’t talk about food,” she said through her fingers.

  “Sorry.”

  After taking a few deep breaths, she let her hand drop from her mouth and smiled shakily. “Forgive me. I rarely feel nauseous like this.”

  “You’re probably just tired after the long trip.” With little sleep and almost constant sex, why wouldn’t she feel a bit under the weather? “Come, we’ll go inside and find you somewhere quiet to sit.”

  As they moved down the platform toward the station, Aurore fought fresh waves of bile rising in her throat. The coal fumes from the trains, the strong aromas of cooking rising from the many food stands, even the sight of refuse on the tracks beside the platform provoked a queasiness.

  The smell of cooking crepes drifting out from the station proved to be the last straw. Turning, she raced for the platform’s edge and, on reaching it, immediately doubled over and vomited on the tracks below.

  Darley was right behind her, fear beating at his brain. Holding her around the waist, his other hand on her forehead, he steadied her as she retched and heaved. This was how cholera started, he thought. And three days later you were dead. Half the armies of England and France had died of the disease last year.

  When there was nothing left in her stomach to eject, she stood up and he handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her mouth and handed it back. “Thank you,” she whispered, deathly white. “I would like to sit if—”

  He had her up in his arms before she finished speaking. “I’ll find a quiet corner,” he said, carrying her into the station in long, swift strides. “Would you like some water now?” With cholera, dehydration ultimately killed you.

  Still fighting off a billowing nausea, she shook her head.

  He found them a bench as far away from the bustle and food stands as possible. They sat side by side in silence, Darley watching her like a hawk his last surviving chick, while Aurore tried to suppress her urge to vomit.

  Five minutes passed, then ten. Feeling as though the worst had passed, Aurore turned to speak to Darley—too soon or too quickly apparently, for her stomach rebelled. Breathing slowly through her nose, she sat utterly still and waited for the queasiness to subside.

  Neither spoke. She couldn’t and he didn’t want to.

  Darley was thinking about sick women who became sicker. And died. Disturbed and agitated by the damning images filling his brain, he abruptly sprang to his feet and walked away, feeling as though he needed to physically distance himself from the quicksand of morbid memory.

  Aurore squealed and flinched as he’d leaped up, and shutting her eyes against the turgid recoil in her stomach, she fought down another wave of nausea. When she opened her eyes sometime later, he was seated beside her again, his expression shuttered. The shop of memories behind his eyes was closed and he was keeping it that way by sheer will.

  “When you feel up to it,” he said, speaking softly and slowly, fully aware now that sudden movement was distressing to her, “I’ll carry you to a cab and take you home. We’ll send for the luggage. Don’t argue, please.”

  “Won’t argue,” she said so low, he had to bend his head to catch the words.

  “You tell me when you’re ready. We’ll sit here as long as it takes.”

  “The smells,” she whispered.

  “We should leave now?”

  She nodded.

  “If you feel the urge to vomit, just do it. We can find other clothes tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” she said, beginning to sense a lessening of her stomach complaint. Although, she was also aware that Darley’s word, tomorrow, had brought with it a truly heavenly sense of joy. Was it possible the two were a balmy matter of cause and effect?—because she felt ever so much better suddenly. She could even move without feeling nauseous, while the thought of food no longer made her want to vomit. In fact, she might be just the tiniest bit hungry. Not an unusual sensation for someone who had just emptied her stomach, she decided, choosing to look upon her restored health with less whimsy and more pragmatism. “You know, I feel a little like eating,” she said.

  While Darley’s use of the word tomorrow might have been remedy for Aurore’s queasiness, her feel like eating phrase was like music to his ears. Cholera victims did not have appetites. He could feel the tension leave his shoulders. He also experienced a sudden rush of happiness that he chose not to acknowledge.

  That she was improving was enough.

  That he would be staying in Paris tonight was just an added bonus.

  And if Aurore was in the mood for food, what better city in which to indulge her urges.

  “Do you want me to carry you?”

  “No. I feel quite”—she smiled—“quite well.”

  He stood and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She smiled again, thinking how effortlessly he pleased and enchanted. “I would like that immensely.” Rising, she placed her hand on his arm.

  “Would a private room at Voisin be to your liking? We are neither of us dressed for the evening, although,” he quickly added as they moved toward the main entrance, “it’s entirely up to you. I have no compunction dining publicly in travel clothes either.”

  She grinned. “So it’s not that you don’t want to be seen with me?”

  “Hardly. I would be the envy of every man in the room.”

  But once in the cab and resting against Darley’s shoulder, Aurore changed her mind. “Would you care if we dined at home instead? My staff will manage something I’m sure.”

  “I would be content with bread and butter if you were with me, darling.”

&nbs
p; “Indeed, and if my stomach becomes a trial again, perhaps that’s what we will have.”

  “It makes no difference to me. You do have brandy, I presume.”

  “You are welcome to drink yourself into a stupor.”

  He smiled into the twilight shadows. “Now why would I do that when I have you to sleep with tonight?”

  She felt rather than saw his smile. “You might want to reconsider. I can’t guarantee I won’t vomit on you,” she teased.

  “If you have a wash basin near, be my guest.”

  “I have modern plumbing, I’ll have you know. We are very up to date.”

  “How big is your tub?” A sudden tantalizing warmth infused his voice.

  “Very.”

  “In that case, I look forward to whatever you might spew on me.”

  She laughed. “You bring me joy, Gazi.” Her voice was teasing but her gaze was not. And for a brief moment she thought of his leaving with great sadness.

  “You make life worth living, sweet puss. I’m thinking I might stay in Paris for a time. My family isn’t expecting me. Do you mind?” By force of habit, he chose not to examine the reasons he was reluctant to leave her.

  “I would adore it if you stayed.” She didn’t even care that he might think her hopelessly enamored.

  “I have an apartment in the city. I could have my things sent there if you’re concerned about propriety.”

  “I don’t care in the least. And consider, darling, this is Paris.”

  “Ah, yes, Paris in the spring. Even better. Perhaps we should thank the Adlbergs for driving us from the Crimea.”

  “For now, I agree. Although, I do want to go back. If the Allies win, of course. I expect the Crimea will become theirs in the treaty settlement. After all, one of the major reasons France and England went to war was for the naval base at Sevastopol.”

  “I know you want to return. I didn’t mean it otherwise. And there is a good possibility the Crimea will change hands. Plans for a spring offensive are en train; I expect you already know that. The Allies will make a major assault on Sevastopol no later than June—a successful one I don’t doubt.” He diplomatically included the French, who were in truth the superior force. He particularly wished to avoid any controversy tonight.