The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(34)

Silently, she put her hand under the pillow beside her and drew out a knife. No sound came to her, not even a shift of breath, but she knew someone lurked in the shadows beyond the bed’s curtains. Not her maid—the abigail always smelled a bit like fresh linens—but someone who carried a scent of musk and of the outdoors.

Not Alexander, who would have politely informed her beforehand if he’d planned to assassinate her. Von Hohenzahl? Bile rose in Anastasia’s throat at the thought of being accosted by him. But von Hohenzahl was usually wreathed in cheroot smoke, and she smelled none of that.

It would be foolish to call out, “Who is there?” but screaming would not be. The owners of the hotel would not like guests being murdered in their beds, especially wealthy foreign countesses whose patronage gave the hotel a certain cachet.

Anastasia drew a deep, quick breath, but before she could make a noise, a man moved faster than thought to the bed, ripped back the bed curtains, and clamped his hand over her mouth.

Anastasia struggled, bringing up the knife, but he grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully until the knife fell from her nerveless fingers. Dimitri had taught Anastasia to fight, and her years of covert activities had honed her skills. But this man was strong and fast, and he knew how to counter every move.

He pinned her to the bed, his hand still clamped to her mouth, and shoved his face to hers, a strange, rather pointed face with large eyes that glistened blue in the darkness. He said in heavy Nvengarian, “Dimitri said you would help.”

Anastasia went utterly still.

As the man studied her with odd blue eyes whose irises were too large, she remembered seeing him at Alexander’s house in Berkeley Square. She’d emerged from the sitting room on the second floor and had glimpsed him on the ground floor, but by the time Anastasia had descended the stairs he was nowhere in sight.

Alexander had never mentioned him, and Anastasia had learned long ago that if Alexander did not volunteer information, you could not pry it from him with a pickaxe. She’d forgotten the incident until now.

Anastasia nodded slowly to indicate that if he removed his hand she would not scream. He lifted his fingers away, but remained wary.

“What do you know of Dimitri?” she asked in a low, furious voice.

“Dimitri said you would help.”

“Yes, we have established that.” Anastasia pushed herself to a sitting position against the pillows, her heart beating swiftly. “How do you know Dimitri?”

“He was friend to me once,” the man answered. “I taught him much.”

Tears stung Anastasia’s eyes as always when she thought of her husband Dimitri, so senselessly dead on a battlefield in Spain long ago. The Austrian commanders had let Napoleon’s men trap Dimitri’s squad and left him and his men to be slaughtered—as a diversion. For that, Anastasia hated every person connected with Metternich and the Austrian army. Hated them and determined to make them pay.

Her fiery, handsome Dimitri, a Nvengarian who’d seduced the young, prim Austrian debutante Anastasia and taught her to live life to its fullest, was dead. Dimitri had been struck down far too young, and Anastasia had honed her grief into a weapon, determined to take revenge against those who’d taken his life.

“He was your friend?” Anastasia repeated, stunned. “When was this?”

“Long ago. He came to the mountains to hunt.”

Anastasia thought about her life in Nvengaria, where she’d been deliriously happy for too short a time. “Yes, he liked the mountains. But he never told me about you.”

The man said nothing, only tilted his head, studying her.

“Why did he tell you I could help you?” she prompted.

In silence, the man reached out and touched her face, his blunt fingers strong. “He said you had great beauty.” He moved his fingertips along her cheekbone then across her throat.

“Please do not touch me,” Anastasia said quickly.

“You let others touch you. Ones you hate. I see the hatred seeping from you, but they do not know.”

The man stroked the hollow of her throat with his thumb, and darkness stirred deep inside her.

“How do you know this?” she asked, trying to keep the terrified note from her voice. “How do you know me?”

“I watch you.”

Anastasia backed from his touch. “You cannot have. I am most careful and am never followed.”

A small smile quirked his mouth. “I watch you. I watch where you go, and the ones who speak to you. You never see me.”

“You lie,” Anastasia countered, panic rising. “I sensed you here tonight. I always know when someone is spying on me.”

“Tonight, I wanted you to wake.” He touched her face again, fingers feather-light.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you one of Alexander’s men?”

“I am Myn.” He withdrew his touch, taking away his warmth. “I belong to no one, and not Alexander. I belong to Nvengaria.”

What a strange way to put it. His words sent a wave of homesickness over Anastasia. “Yes. I belong there too.”

Myn shook his head, faint light from the window glistening on his dark hair. “You are of the outer lands.”

“I am Nvengarian,” Anastasia said, hurt. “I might have been born in Austria, but I am of Nvengaria in my heart.”