Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(7)

“Thank you.”

“I'm doing you a favor, Charles,” he said darkly. “Don't forget this.”

Ashbourne's face creased in a grateful smile. “You wouldn't let me.”

Tasia kept her gaze glued to the window as the carriage passed through the tidily plotted landscape. She thought of her native country, the endless miles of uncultivated land, the sky of smoky blue and gray. How different this was. For all its economic and military might, England was surprisingly small. Outside the crowded city, it was a land of fences and hedges and green meadows. The common people they passed on the road seemed more prosperous than the peasants in Russia. Their clothing was modern, no smocks or robes in sight. Their sturdy carts and animals were well-kept. The rural towns, with their wooden farm buildings and thatched cottages, were small and neat. But there were no wooden bathhouses here, as there were in every village in Russia. How in the world did these people stay clean?

There were no birch forests. The earth was brown instead of black. The air lacked the cool tang of the Baltic. Tasia searched for church spires, but there was a surprising lack of them. In Russia there were churches everywhere, even in the most remote areas. Gold onion domes poised on white towers would gleam on the horizon like lit candles, signaling the way for lost souls on their journeys. And the Russians loved bells, their musical peals signaling the time for worship and the beginning and ending of festivals. She would miss the sound of bells pealing in joyful cacophony. The English did not seem like a bell-ringing sort of people.

Thoughts of home began to make Tasia's chest ache. It seemed much longer than a week since she had arrived on her cousin Alicia's doorstep. Exhausted, drained of color, Tasia had managed only a wan smile and a brief greeting of “Zdráhstvuyti” before half-fainting in her arms. Although stunned by her unexpected appearance, Alicia had taken Tasia inside immediately. There was no question that she would help her in every way possible. Loyalty ran strong in their family, bred through generations of Slavs whose violent history had made them fiercely tribal. Although Alicia had been brought to England while still a child, she was full-blooded Russian.

“No one knows I'm alive,” Tasia had told her. “But if somehow they discover what has happened, they'll suspect I've taken refuge with relatives somewhere. I can't stay with you. I must disappear.”

Alicia hadn't needed to ask who “they” were. The government authorities wouldn't go that far in the pursuit of justice, being too busy with constant riots and political intrigue. But if Mikhail's family suspected she had escaped, they wouldn't rest until she was found. The Angelovskys were powerful, and Mikhail's older brother Nikolas was known to have a taste for revenge. “We must find you a position as a governess,” Alicia had said. “No one takes notice of a governess, not even the other servants. It's a singularly lonely position, but quite anonymous. As a matter of fact, we have a friend who might agree to hire you. A widower with one daughter.”

Now that she had met Lord Stokehurst, Tasia wasn't certain what she thought of him. Usually it was easy for her to read a person's character, but Stokehurst was difficult. There had been no one like him in St. Petersburg. None of the long-bearded court officials, the self-important military officers, or the languid young aristocrats she had met had been so worldly, so Western. Tasia sensed a tremendous force of will beneath his cool exterior. He was a man who would turn ruthless to get what he wanted. She would rather have nothing to do with such a man, but she didn't have the luxury of choice.

She recalled the way he had tensed when she had seen the silver hook. She had not been repelled by it. Without that flaw he wouldn't have seemed quite human to her. But the air had turned crisp with challenge, and Tasia had known that Stokehurst would rather inspire fear than pity. How much effort it must take for him to camouflage all hint of vulnerability from others. And how much pride he had. It surrounded him like an invisible mantle.

During the ride to his country estate, Stokehurst kept the gleaming hook in full view, resting it casually on his thigh. Tasia suspected the ploy was deliberate, to see if she was unnerved by it. She doubted she was the first to be tested this way. And she was nervous, though it had nothing at all to do with the hook. She had never been alone with a man in her life.

But she was no longer a sheltered heiress destined to marry a prince and preside over palaces filled with servants. Now she was a servant, and the man sitting opposite was her master. She had always ridden in the family carriages, upholstered in mink, with gold trappings and rock-crystal doors, and interiors painted by French artists. This vehicle, luxurious though it was, could not compare. Grimly Tasia reflected that she had never drawn her own bath, or washed her own stockings. Her one useful skill was needlework. From the time she was a child she had possessed a little basket filled with needles, scissors, and colored silk thread, for her mother had believed that a girl should never be allowed to sit idly.

Tasia forced the thoughts from her mind, reminding herself that she must never look back. It did not matter that she had lost her life of privilege. Riches were nothing. All the Kapterev wealth had not been able to keep her father from dying, nor had it brought her comfort in times of loneliness. She wasn't afraid of poverty, or work, or hunger. She would accept whatever the future held. All went according to God's plan.

Wondering just what sort of woman he was taking back with him, Luke watched her with keen blue eyes. Every fold of her dress was perfectly arranged, every muscle still. She sat against the velvet upholstery as if she were posing for a portrait.