to the park, then slipped down the stairs and let herself out into the mews yard without encountering anyone. The grey, Borodino, tossed his head and whickered in greeting, and she stroked his velvety nose.
“It’s all right,” she crooned. “Whatever horrors you’ve seen, they’re behind you now. You’re safe here.”
Her heart contracted sharply. The horse was lucky indeed to have been rescued by such a kind-hearted man. Sebastien had provided a safe haven for the traumatized animal. He must have seen equally dreadful things himself during the war. Did he, as many soldiers did, experience nightmares that plunged him right back into the hell of battle? Who did he have to comfort him?
With a jolt, Anya realized she wanted it to be her. She wanted to make him laugh in honest enjoyment, to be the one he came to when he couldn’t sleep. She wanted to be his friend and his confidante. The one who lightened his days and eased his nights.
She felt more for him than mere liking. More than simple lust. She understood him, with a soul-deep recognition. It was far too easy to imagine herself living here at the Tricorn, becoming a permanent part of his world.
It could never happen, of course. He saw her as nothing more than a temporary diversion, and surely Vasili wouldn’t be staying in London for much longer. She had a few weeks, at most, to enjoy being with Wolff before she’d have to return to Covent Garden and slip back into her dreary life.
A shuffling step in the straw made her turn, expecting the stable lad, but a larger figure entered the barn. He looked vaguely familiar, and Anya’s stomach dropped in sudden dismay as she placed him: the third kidnapper from Hounslow Heath, the one who’d ridden away.
He smiled as he advanced, showing several missing teeth. “Good morning, Princess,” he said in Russian. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Anya backed up, cornered. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
His smile was ugly. “You know what I’m doing here. Count Petrov is most anxious to see you, little dove.” His gaze flicked lasciviously over her body, immodestly displayed in the shirt and breeches.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She sidestepped and snatched a leather lead rein from a nail on the wall, brandishing it in front of her like a whip.
Eclipse whinnied and kicked his hooves against his door in the next stall, picking up on the tension in the air, but the placid Borodino paid them no attention. He was used to people flailing and arguing near him.
“You were fortunate to receive help before.” The man’s lip curled in a sneer. “Your savior killed my brother and my friend. But this time, you won’t be so lucky. Count Petrov does not take kindly to those who fail him.”
Anya swung the leather, trying to hit him in the face, but he blocked the move with his forearm and caught the strap in his fist. He yanked her toward him and she stumbled, falling to her knees in the straw, and when she opened her mouth to scream, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled hard enough to make her eyes water. She gasped in pain. He clapped a dirty palm over her mouth so she bit him, hard, and he swore as she twisted and thrashed.
She managed to let out a panicked shout. “Help! Sebastien!”
Eclipse reared again and let out the equine version of an enraged roar. His hooves thundered furiously against the wooden boards as he tried to get to Anya.
Anya tried to remember the advice she’d been given. She aimed for the man’s nose, tried to elbow him between the legs, but he managed to evade all her attempts. He caught her around the waist and dragged her toward the stable entrance.
The back door banged, and she gasped in relief when both Sebastien and Mickey burst into the mews yard and skidded to a halt on the cobbles.
“Take your hands off her this instant,” Wolff commanded.
The deadly calm of his voice should have been an indication to the man holding her to run. Unfortunately, the simpleton didn’t take the hint. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her throat. Anya froze.
“No. The printsessa comes with me.”
Her heart missed a beat. For one brief, hopeful moment she thought Wolff wouldn’t register the Russian word for princess, but of course he missed nothing. His eyes narrowed.
“Princess? What are you talking about?”
“Princess Denisova,” the man repeated. “She