Page 13 of The Storybook Hero
She, on the other hand, was much too sensible to give such a man a second thought.
“Miss Hadley?” Mr. Heron coughed hesitantly. “Is something not to your liking? You are not too chilly, or in need of a stop to stretch your legs?”
Octavia started. “Why no, I am quite comfortable, thank you. Why do you ask?”
He swallowed hard. “Well, you seemed to be, er, frowning.”
“Was I?” She made a concerted effort to lighten her expression. “Forgive me. I fear I was letting my thoughts stray back to the voyage from London.”
“A rough passage?” inquired one of the arrivals from Stockholm, a portly gentleman attached to the office of the Secretary.
“Unpredictable,” she murmured.
“I quite abhor sea trips,” piped up the gentleman’s wife. “One is so apt to take ill. Once you have traveled as much as I have, you will realize that the best thing in general is to quickly put any unpleasant occurrences behind you and look only to the future.”
Octavia forced a smile. “Very sage advice, ma’am. I shall do my best to heed it.”
The conversation turned to talk of Tsar Alexander’s growing rift with Napoleon, and what the odds were that the French army would march on Russia. Putting aside all thoughts of a certain individual, Octavia joined in the lively discussion, resolved not to allow any such lapse of girlish nonsense happen again.
Alex turnedand watched the flappable Mr. Heron lead Octavia away from the docks towards the cluster of coaches waiting along the Nevsky Prospect. The faint taste of her was still on his lips, a honeyed tang that ebbed to bittersweet as it struck him that it was most unlikely he would ever tease her with such outrageous attentions again.
He quirked in a slight smile, recalling her shocked expression. It was hard to resist stirring up the sparks in those flashing eyes—perhaps because she laid into him with such spirit, unintimidated in the least by standing up for herself. Clearly she was no biddable young milk and water miss! Alex could well imagine how her strong opinions and quick tongue had landed her in trouble. Most men could not abide being challenged—especially by a female.
He, on the other hand, found it intriguing. Snatches of their conversation had hinted at a mind of sharp intelligence and unconventional ideas. There had also been a hint of something else. Beneath the icy mien of disapproval had flared, if only for an instant, a passion that surprised him. That first storm-tossed night, he hadn’t been so drunk as to not feel the heat course through her as she responded to the kiss in his cabin. She might speak as if all men could go to the devil, but her body betrayed her.
A most interesting body it was, too. The dowdy gowns, cut high enough to choke a cleric, could not disguise the long legs and willowy curves, while the prim hairstyle did not fully tame a mass of glorious curls the color of wild heather honey. Did she really believe that nonsense she spouted about having little to attract the opposite sex? If so, it was the rare time where he might judge her opinion to be utter fustian. It was a shame there was no further chance to explore the many facets of Miss Hadley—somehow, he felt that he wouldn’t be disappointed in any respect.
A farmer knocked into him as he tried to maneuver a barrow loaded with a sack of grain over the rough cobblestones. With a few choice words in Russian, he motioned for Alex to step aside.
He complied, but his reply brought a spasm of surprise to the farmer’s bearded face. Looking contrite, the fellow tugged at his forelock. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect you to speak our language.”
“Just enough to know when I have been insulted,” replied Alex with a faint smile.
A quirk of humor pulled at the farmer’s lips before his face regained its stoic mien. “You are far from home?” He paused to cross himself in the Orthodox fashion. “No amount of rubles could tempt me to leave my motherland.”
“Every man has his price.” Alex then gave a small shrug. “I wonder, can you tell a stranger where one might find….”
In a matter of minutes, he had managed to learn where he might purchase the sort of clothing he needed, as well as where a gentleman of limited means might procure reasonable lodging. Things were going along as well as he could have hoped for, reflected Alex. And yet he couldn’t help but feel a bit emptier than usual as he turned to embark in earnest on the task of finding his young relative.
By evening he had exchanged the clothing he had brought from London for an equally modest assortment of Russian essentials that befitted a genteel but impecunious tutor. He sighed as he regarded the streak of dirt on the rough planks of his tiny garret room. The dingy sheets and threadbare blanket looked suspect as well, and he was sure he would be scratching in earnest by morning. Tossing the secondhand carpetbag on the floor, he sat on the rickety bedstead and uncorked the bottle that he pulled from the pocket of his heavy coat.
Bloody hell.Now that he was actually here, the enormity of what he had undertaken caused an icy knot to form in hisstomach. Did he really expect to travel over such a vast, strange country—alone and without any help on which to fall back—and manage to locate a twelve-year-old child he had never set eyes on?
Another silent oath reverberated in his head. And if he did accomplish such a daunting journey, what made him think that he would be able to convince whoever was looking after the lad—or the lad himself—to let the young count quit his home in the company of an utter stranger?
Alex took a long swallow of the clear, fiery liquid. His uncle must have been mad to think such a plan could work! As the vodka sought to burn through the tangle of doubt inside, he was sorely tempted to fling his plans to the devil and board the next ship for home.
What had possessed him to take on this challenge?He was bound to fail, and fail miserably, just as he had at any meaningful thing in his life. His jaw tightened as he eyed what was left of his drink. His brother was dead, his family despised him, and he had spent nearly all of his adult life engaged in bedding other men’s wives and seeing how many bottles of claret and brandy he could pour down his throat.
Oh yes, a fine hero he made.
He quickly swallowed the last of the spirits. Not bothering to remove the thick boots he had just purchased, he fell back on the thin mattress and closed his eyes, the empty bottle falling to the floor with a loud thump.
It was only the clatter of cart wheels and loud shouts of the drivers that finally caused Alex’s lids to pry open early the next morning. A faint ray of light from the narrow window fell across his face, causing him to wince in discomfort. The iron frame creaked as he shifted slightly.
He felt like hell.
As Alex ran a hand along the stubble on his jaw, he had no doubt that the cracked looking glass above the chest of drawers would show that he looked no better. It took some force of will to untangle his legs from the threadbare cover and swing them to the floor.
