Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(14)

“Oh.” A flush stained his cheekbones. “I guess that was a dumb thing to say.”

Darla flashed him a wink and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re handsome enough to make up for it.”

Natalia paid no more attention to them as she continued walking the perimeter of the room. Everywhere she looked, the house brimmed with hidden treasures. The nook created by the bay window would be a perfect place to read on long winter nights. Amber light from the late afternoon sun cast a comforting glow into the room. This place felt like it could be a home. She set her hand on the mantel and surveyed the cozy parlor.

“I’m ready to buy it.”

Darla hugged her in excitement, but Liam was appalled that she was willing to pay full price instead of haggling. She disagreed.

“Haggling will draw things out, and I’m afraid I might lose it.”

Liam covered his eyes and groaned. “You’re an idiot if you pay asking price. You always haggle over a purchase this big. They won’t respect you if you don’t.”

He was probably right. Emotions must never enter into a business decision.

It took three days of negotiation, but in the end, Natalia had her townhouse for an excellent price and was ready to step into the next chapter of her life.





7





Dimitri saw no other people for the next two weeks, and with each passing day, he doubted his ability to survive the winter alone. As much as he feared the roving gangs of bandits, finding a group to join might be his only way to stay alive. It was almost November, and his need for human contact was almost as strong as his painful cravings for real food and decent rest.

One night the scent of woodsmoke and cooked meat penetrated his fog of exhaustion. All senses on alert, he crept toward the scent of a campfire. The nickering of a horse sounded in the forest ahead, and Dimitri snuck closer, taking cover behind a tree to squint at the group.

There were six of them, a ragtag lot. Their garments were a mishmash of western and tribal clothing. Some wore traditional sashes tied around their middle like the nomadic people of the region, but others wore the striped tunics of a penal colony. Flickering light from the campfire illuminated two of the men’s faces. They had the look of many of the nomadic peoples from this part of the world.

It would be hard to join them if he couldn’t communicate. He hunkered behind a spruce tree, blowing into his hands to keep them warm as he considered the risk.

A shout sounded from the camp.

He’d been spotted. His heart surged, and his mouth went dry. He wasn’t strong enough to flee and had no choice but to fall on their mercy. Dear Lord, please be with me.

He came out from behind the tree holding his hands up, the universal sign of surrender.

“I mean you no harm,” he said in Russian.

No one responded. There were six of them, and three held rifles pointed directly at him.

“I mean you no harm,” he said in English, then tried German, his only other language. There was no response. He scrambled for what few words in Chinese he knew, but he couldn’t remember them, and the men with weapons drew closer.

He kept his hands up while stepping backward. “Please,” he said. “I am a wealthy man. My family will pay well for my safety.”

The man in front unleashed a stream of foreign words directed at him, but Dimitri shook his head, still retreating.

“I don’t understand.”

The diamonds in his boot were hard lumps beneath his foot. If he could offer them a diamond, it might help. How could he get it out? Reaching toward his boot would alarm them, but if he could figure out how to offer them a diamond, he might have a chance.

He kept talking as he retreated. “Please. I want to join you.”

A man with his hair pulled into a topknot smiled. Perhaps he understood Russian after all, because he let the rifle drop from his hand and carried it by the barrel as he approached Dimitri, a taunting hint of a smile on his face.

Like lightning, the stranger swung the rifle, slamming it behind Dimitri’s knees and knocking him to the ground. A punch to the side of his head almost knocked him out. His vision whirled, but before he could rise, someone hauled him up from behind, and another fist slammed into his jaw.

Down again. Voices shouting, men surrounding him. Kicks, shoves, fists. He braced a knee beneath him and tried to stand, but a boot between his shoulders forced him back down.

“Please,” he choked out. “I am a—”

A fist shut him up. He couldn’t die out here in this godforsaken wilderness. His mother would never learn what happened to him. But maybe that was for the best.

Someone jerked one of his boots off. They tried to get his coat off, but he clenched his arms tight. If he lost this coat, he would freeze to death.

“Back away,” he roared, but it was hopeless.

The stitching on his lapel ripped open, and the gold coins rolled out. Now the men descended like jackals as they tore at his clothing and pulled the other boot from him.

More blows to his head, then nothing but black.



The cold woke him. Everything hurt. He tried to move, but the pain in his head was brutal. The groan in his ears sounded like an animal, but it came from his own throat. Blood was crusted on his face and down his neck. He tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut.

A crackle and a pop sounded. Fire.