Page 11 of The Storybook Hero
She intrigued him. Sweet, biddable chits bored him to tears. He had the distinct feeling that those two adjectives were not ones that would come to mind when speaking of Miss Octavia Hadley. It was clear from his own dealings with her, as well as snatches of other conversations that he had managed to overhear, that she possessed a sharp intellect. Equally clear was the fact that she wasn’t afraid to use it. Several pompous merchants had stalked away from an argument with her muttering darkly about damned bluestockings and unnatural females. What they had really meant was that she was smarter than they were.
And she had courage and spirit to go along with her brains. Instead of falling into a fit of hysterics at finding herself in the clutches of a very large, very strong and very drunk stranger, she had not hesitated to defend herself.
Quite credibly, he might add.
Brains. Courage. Spirit.Definitely not a good combination for a female who wanted to stay out of trouble. No wonder she had landed herself in the suds. Alex would dearly love to have heard just what incident had caused her exile to a merchant ship bound for St. Petersburg. He imagined she did not resort to the knee trick without extreme provocation.
However, he hadn’t had a chance to pursue that topic. Indeed, he had scarcely been able to exchange a civil greeting with her during the rest of their voyage. She had avoidedhim like the plague. It was a damnable shame. He would probably never see her again once the ship dropped anchor, and somehow, the thought affected his spirits more than he cared to admit.
Pushing away from the railing, he began to pace the deck. The pursuit of a female, no matter how interesting, was not why he was here. It was time to put her out of his mind.
But he wished her luck. He had a feeling she was going to need it.
Three
“Miss Hadley?”
Octavia looked around the crowded wharf, trying to spot whoever had called her name. All around her was a crush of people and cultures, the long beards and embroidered robes of the Russians boyars mixing in with the felt boots and smocks of the country serfs and the European dress of the foreigners. The air swirled with all manner of exotic smells, the less pleasant ones sweetened with the scent of pitch from the piles of spruce logs destined for spars for the British navy. And the crowded walkways were jumbled with sacks of grain, bales of tanned hides, and mountains of thick pelts of fox and sable.
“Miss Hadley! Over here.” A young man with a long, thin face raised a gangly arm and waved once again with a bird-like twitter. “I am Mr. Heron. I’ve been sent by the minister to collect you and your things. Several other members of our Mission, due to arrive later this morning on the ship from Stockholm, will be travelling to Moscow with us.”
Octavia managed to keep a straight face. The poor man. He probably suffered no end of teasing without her also cracking a smile at the joke the Fates had played upon him. She returnedhis wave as he squeezed through a group of burly sailors and stepped with exaggerated care over a crate of live chickens.
“Have your belongings been brought off yet?” he inquired, brushing his hand across his high forehead. Despite the chill air, there was a sheen of perspiration on his pale skin and a nervous twitch to his left cheek.
Octavia pointed to the lone, battered trunk at her feet that held all her worldly possessions.
“Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll send a porter for it right away. Would you mind terribly if I left you alone for just a short time while I fetch the bag of dispatches from London?” He pointed to the sleek Royal Navy corvette that had just dropped anchor in the harbor. Already a gig was being swung out from its davits, with a crew ready to row ashore.
“Of course. I shall be fine,” she answered.
He bobbed his head in thanks and rushed off, the movement of his long legs conjuring up the unfortunate image of a large bird picking his way through a boggy marsh.
The cacophony of languages was astounding. She could pick out some Russian, along with a smattering of German and English. The rest she could only begin to guess at. Was the improbably tall blond gentleman with hulking shoulders babbling in Swedish? Perhaps the two merchants haggling over several bolts of silk were screaming at each other in Polish. Or?—
Someone jostled her elbow. “Not abandoned already, I trust?”
Octavia turned around at the sound of the familiar voice and glared. “Must you always be intruding on my peace?”
Alex’s brow came up in amusement. “Peace? Forgive me. Slowtop that I am, I hadn’t realized how conducive this atmosphere is to peaceful contemplation.”
She allowed a reluctant smile. “I was caught up in just watching everything. I didn’t mean to snap at you, Mr. Leigh.And no, I have not been abandoned. The gentleman from the Mission had to collect the diplomatic bag from London and will return shortly.”
“Fascinating, is it not?”
“Oh yes!” She didn’t try to hide her enthusiasm. “I have always wanted to travel.”
He eyed her thoughtfully. “Most lone females would be quaking in terror at being in a foreign country, with no family, no friends. Or falling into a swoon.”
“I can’t afford to quake. I must work for my living,” she replied. “Swooning is out, too. I forgot to pack my vinaigrette.”
His blue eyes danced with laughter.
“What about you? Is someone being sent to escort you to your new home?”
“No. They didn’t know quite when to expect me. I shall just have to get there on my own.”
Her brow furrowed. “Do you speak Russian?”
