The Counterfeit Count (15 page)

“Grassville?” she asked.

“Excuse me, Demi.” His bow in her direction was as mocking as Mr. Lawson's words. “Since you have begun to sprinkle your conversation with our slang, I fear I forget which phrases slip easily from your lips.”

“Russian ones are the simplest for me, but I fear you would be saying little more than
Ya ne ponimáyu
if you were in Russia.”

“That phrase I know means I do not understand.” He bent toward her, and she was as startled as he was when she drew back. Seeing his astonishment in his eyes, she squared her shoulders. She should not act like a frightened deer being set upon by the hounds. “Grassville, my dear count,” he continued, “simply means the country.”

“Which country?”

Mr. Lawson mumbled something, then said, “The countryside, Dmitrieff. What is beyond the city.”

Natalya sat straighter and smiled when Creighton moved aside so her head did not strike his chin. “The countryside? We are leaving the city?”

“For only a day or two, I fear. My colonel has invited your general and his staff to enjoy some hunting at his country estate not far from London. There will be a gathering with the ladies in the evening as well, I am sure, so while we are there, Barclay, you shall call the count Demi, and the count shall call you Barclay.”

“Cannot go,” muttered Mr. Lawson.

“Why not?” Creighton asked.

“I am allergic to grassville. It makes me sneeze.”

“What part of it?”

“All of it. The good Lord granted us the skills to make enough blunt to raise roofs over our head. It behooves us to enjoy them.”

Creighton dropped back into his chair and smiled. “As you are not joining us, it would seem logical for you two to start calling each other by your given names here and now. Is that settled?”

“I would say so,” Natalya answered.

Barclay grumbled, but sat by the hearth.

“What is wrong?” Creighton asked.

“You have become too accustomed to giving orders, Creighton,” Barclay muttered.

He laughed. “Why should that worry you? I do not recall you obeying a single order in your life.”

“Which is why I had the good sense to stay away from the army. I did not want to become an unthinking puppet of officers who were superior in rank only. I still have no idea why either of you jumped into that fury. You appear to be otherwise in full control of your faculties.”

Natalya stood and crossed her arms over the front of her uniform. “Did you consider it might be for the challenge?”

“What challenge?” asked Creighton, surprising her, for she had thought he would understand.

“The challenge of testing yourself to see if you can do all you have vowed.”

Barclay sniffed. “I have vowed never to be at the wrong end of a gun. That is a vow I feel no challenge to keep.”

Creighton glanced at him. “Is that so? Even now?”

When Barclay sputtered and sat quickly, Natalya resisted smiling. It would make the situation more explosive. What a bizarre man Barclay Lawson was. All air and no substance, so unlike Creighton.

“You must know which challenge I speak of, Creighton,” she said into the silence. “The challenge of daring to trust those who trust you, the challenge of testing the strength of your arm and the speed of your mount, the challenge—”

“Enough of the war!” Creighton set himself on his feet. “I see there is little brandy here. Why don't I ring for some to be brought?”

As he turned, rage tightening his face, she thought he would push past her without another word, but he paused and put his hand on her arm. She took a half-step toward him, wanting to be even closer to the gentle madness that suffused her whenever he touched her. His fingers stroked her arm out of Barclay's view. As she gazed up into his eyes, she saw the pain he tried so desperately to hide.

“Stay and have some brandy with us, Demi,” he murmured. “Mayhap speaking of what I wish had never happened might help me forget.”

“I should go and—”

“Stay.”

“Yes,” she answered as quietly, for she might argue with him, but she could not with her own longings. She wanted to be with Creighton as much as she could, for she knew the time was coming when she must bid him farewell. If she had a bit of sense, she would look forward to that time with eagerness. Instead, she wanted to linger here as she rested her cheek against his and let his breath warm her skin. She longed for more than that. As her gaze rested on his lips, she thought of them on hers. Would his kiss be tender or demanding?

Her hand rose toward his jaw, but she pulled it back. Barclay! Dash it!

When Creighton smiled with regret, she knew his thoughts dangerously matched hers. His fingers drew reluctantly away, and she watched him walk out of the book-room. A sigh drifted from her lips. Wanting what was impossible was a certain path to heartache, but she could not resist savoring a single moment she might spend with him.

“Mayhap 'tis not a bad idea,” Barclay said.

She faced him, hoping these were the first words he had spoken, for she had heard no others. “What?”

“Using given names, for I fear my tongue will be sprained if I try to use your full name too many more times, Demi, as I announce my victory over you.”

She smiled. “Do not be premature with your celebrations.”

“I know you are the war hero, but things are different here. Look at how Creighton acts. He doesn't parade around himself like a cheap cyprian.”

Her smile vanished. “I know, and I don't understand why Creighton joined the army. He hates even to speak of it.”

“You chucklehead!” He gave her a superior grin. “Isn't it obvious? Maeve Wilton is the reason Creighton bought that blasted commission.”

“He wanted to prove his bravery to her?” She could imagine no better way for a man to show a woman his love than by protecting the very earth she walked upon.

“Prove his bravery?” Barclay snorted his disagreement. “All he wanted to do was forget her, even if it took getting his head blown off his shoulders to do it. I don't know who was more surprised—Creighton to discover she was still unwed when he returned or Maeve when she found out he did not do the heroic thing and die.”

“What a horrible thing to say!”

“But it is the truth.” He glanced toward the door again. “Where is Creighton with that brandy? I still haven't boasted to him how much I won last night.”

When he left the room, Natalya bent to retrieve her half-polished boot. This was becoming too complicated, and she feared the tangles would only tighten during the days to come. She wondered if she would be able to free herself from the snarls when the time came to leave London, or, she had to confess as she looked at the chair where Creighton had sat, if she would wish to.

Thirteen

“Bravo!” Creighton called above the dogs splashing into the pond. “An excellent shot, Demi!”

As Natalya reloaded her gun with easy efficiency, she smiled. “It is much simpler, you must admit, when the beasts do not fire back at us.”

“Now there is a horrendous thought.”

She sat on the knoll and gazed across the pond. Beyond the trees, she could see the chimneys of Colonel Carruthers' country home. No rustic dacha, the elegant stone house was grand enough to have at least forty rooms. Even as she watched, another carriage came up the curved drive and paused to deposit more guests.

“I thought this was to be a quiet gathering,” she said, as Creighton took the dead bird from one of the dogs. She patted another of the brown-and-white spaniels on the head and was rewarded with a lick across her cheek. Laughing as she wiped her face on her sleeve, she motioned for the dog to take its place with the rest of the pack.

“Anything less than one hundred people is a small gathering for the colonel. Remember that he commanded a battalion. He is accustomed to having many folks around.” He pointed skyward. “Here comes more.”

Natalya sighted her gun on the first bird flushed out by the dogs. When Creighton grasped the barrel and pushed it toward the ground, she started to protest. Her words became a gasp as he put his other hand on her head and shoved her down, too.

“Shh!” he said, holding his finger to his lips.

Before she could ask what madness had possessed him now, she heard what he had. Two men were coming toward them. And they were arguing. She smiled. General Miloradovich was one of them. She did not recognize the other voice, but they were speaking in Russian.

The men passed right behind their blind in the cattails at the edge of the pond. Natalya bit her lip to keep from laughing when she heard the general deride the mud and the steep hill and the birds which flew too fast.

“England is too proud of itself,” mumbled the general.

“They act as if they won the war alone.” She strained to match a name to the voice as it added, “Think how they will act when everything explodes during the czar's visit with the Regent.”

“It will serve them right to underestimate what the Russians have done.”

When Natalya chuckled lowly, Creighton whispered, “What is so funny?”

“The general is not happy with this outing or anything else about this visit to England. I think he hopes the czar will share his feelings.” She explained what General Miloradovich had said.

“You would be wise to hide from the good general the trophies you have shot today.”

“He would not appreciate being reminded how long it has been since he aimed at anything moving.” She sat cross-legged and balanced her gun on her knees. “Too much fresh country air unnerves him. He prefers the soot of the city, but this is what I prefer.” She leaned her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her hand. “This is nearly as lovely as Russia.”

Creighton could not help chuckling. When she sat there looking like a golden-topped elf and spoke of home in such wistful tones, it seemed impossible she had earned the ribbons for valor pinned to her coat. His laugh faded as he watched her stare toward the house. There might be a childlike longing in her voice, but there was nothing childlike about the angles of her body, which were revealed so beguilingly as she sat beside him. The hint of a breeze, carrying with it the scent of the mud and some fragrant soap she must have used, teased the tawny curls at her nape. He wondered if her skin would taste earthy like the mud or as sweet as the lavender. His fingers knew how silken her skin would feel. He leaned toward her.

With a silent oath, he turned away. What a block he was! One woman had made him look the jack-a-napes in front of the élite. Hadn't he learned his lesson then, or must he continue to yearn to hold this charming sprite whose every thought was focused on returning to her bleak homeland so many miles away?

“The colonel's house is quite ancient, isn't it?” she asked.

“At least two hundred years.” He cursed his clipped voice when she looked at him, a perplexed frown furrowing her brow.

“Is something amiss, Creighton?”

How could she ask? She had spent months—years—living among men. Had she learned nothing from them of the desires that captivated a man's mind when a beautiful woman was so close?

He feigned a smile. “How do you intend to sneak your booty past Miloradovich?”

“It shan't be difficult. I will leave them in the kitchen.” Her forehead ruffled again. “Something is amiss. What is it?”

“You are trying to make something out of nothing.” Gently, he smoothed the lines from her brow. When her eyes widened, his fingers slipped along her cheek. So soft, so wondrously soft she was, despite the rich color of her tanned skin. There could be no other woman like her. Fierce warrior and sweet angel, worldly woman and innocent child.

Don't be a block
! The warning sounded through his head again as he reached to draw her to him. Natalya might dress like a man but she was unquestionably a woman, and he had learned painfully that to trust a woman was an invitation to misery.

He leaned against a tree behind him. “I simply wanted to be certain you were having a pleasant day.”

“I am, Creighton. This is just the outing I needed.”

He set his gun on the ground beside him. His arm around her shoulders drew her back against the trunk, too, but he released her as soon as she sat next to him. Touching her, even so chastely, tempted him to do far more. Again he forced a smile, but he need not have worried because she was staring at the house again.

“What do you find so fascinating about the colonel's house?” he asked.

“The color of the stone and shape of the chimneys reminds me of a
maison
I saw a few leagues east of Paris.” Natalya pulled her gaze from the house and looked at Creighton who was regarding her with a baffled half-smile. “Would Colonel Carruthers be offended if I said something like that to him?”

“I doubt it. He might be very intrigued, for I doubt if he has been east of Paris.” He brushed his ruddy hair from his eyes but the breeze twisted it right back. “I look forward to visiting Paris again now that Boney is safely imprisoned.”

“I never want to go back. Going into Paris was an experience like none other I have ever lived.” She rested her chin on her hand as she again propped her elbow on her knee. “Thousands of Allies died that day.”

“And most of them were Russian.”

“Yes.”

“Did you lose friends?”

“Of course.” With a shuddering sigh, she turned away.

“Did you mourn for them?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Did you cry, Natalya?”

“A Russian kapitán does not weep for fallen comrades. I must exult in their bravery and retell it to anyone who will listen until they are known as
bogatyrs
.”

“What is that?”

“
Bogatyrs
are the heroes of the poems we call
byliny
. Their brave exploits become legend.”