hooded figure shuffled up from the opening. He wore the formal vestments of an Orthodox priest. From his stooped shoulders and slow gait, he appeared old and rather frail, weighted down by his clerical regalia: a dark, ankle-length robe with a white surcoat lavishly embroidered in gold. He carried a worn, leather-bound Bible in one hand and two thin circlets of laurel leaves tied with a white ribbon in the other.
Anya’s heart began to pound. Those were the “crowns” he would hold above their heads during the traditional Russian marriage ceremony.
The key clicked in the lock, and Vasili entered with the priest. Anya tried to see the man’s face, to see if there was even the slightest hint of compassion or hope of reprieve, but the hood of his robe obscured his features; she caught only a glimpse of dark beard.
Without even acknowledging her or Elizaveta, he placed the crowns on the chart table and started to flick through the pages of the Bible, searching for the correct place. His hands, Anya noticed, were not those of an old man, all liver-spotted and veined. They were those of someone younger, with long fingers and neatly cut nails. A wave of impotent fury scorched her. He was clearly another of Petrov’s acolytes, either bribed or coerced into service. He would doubtless be selectively deaf, like Wolff. There would be no help from that quarter.
She offered one of the glasses of tainted vodka to Vasili. “Let’s not completely ignore tradition, Petrov. We should make a toast to a long and happy marriage.”
Vasili’s lips curled at her dry tone, but he took the glass from her and raised it to his mouth. Anya watched him closely to see if he would drink, but when he hesitated, she lifted her own glass, tapped the rim against his own, and said, “Za zdarovje.”
To his health. And hers.
God help her.
She tipped back her head and swallowed the entire shot in one gulp, gasping at the icy fire that flooded down her throat.
At least if she died, she’d be with Dmitri. And her parents. That wouldn’t be so bad.
Through watering eyes she saw Vasili swallow his own drink, and a spike of triumph warmed her as much as the vodka had done. Now all she had to do was stall long enough until they either fell asleep or died.
What a happy thought.
She turned toward the chart table under the guise of needing somewhere to place her empty glass and put it down next to the pin holding the map. Using her skirts to conceal the movement, she tugged the pin free and stepped closer to the priest. She might as well make some attempt to sway him.
“I am Princess Anastasia Denisova,” she said levelly. “Cousin to the tsar. Whatever Petrov is paying you to do this, I’ll double it.”
The click of the hammer on Vasili’s pistol drew her attention. “That’s enough, Anya,” he said pleasantly. He pointed the pistol at Elizaveta, who’d taken a seat in the corner of the cabin. “You’ll say the vows, or I’ll put a bullet through your friend’s head.”
Elizaveta whimpered and ice slithered through Anya’s veins as hopelessness overwhelmed her. Damn Vasili. A pin was no match for a bullet.
Why wasn’t the sleeping potion working? Apart from a pleasant glow in her stomach from the vodka, she felt nothing out of the ordinary. And she was smaller than Vasili. Since they’d taken roughly the same dose, shouldn’t she feel the effects of the drug before him?
He stepped forward to stand on the priest’s other side. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
A strange calm settled over her. Would Sebastien care if she married Vasili? Would he avenge her honor? He’d said he’d never fight a duel for any woman. Petty squabbles, he’d called them. But perhaps—
She closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle.
Chapter 36.
“Petrov!”
The enraged bellow echoed from the dockside, and Anya’s heart turned over in her chest. Twin arrows of joy and terror pierced her. “Sebastien,” she breathed.
“I’m coming for you, you bastard!”
The crack of a pistol rent the night, followed by a series of shouts and a splash as someone ditched the Cossack guarding the gangway into the river.
“Anya!”
Heavy boots pounded up the gangplank. The two guards on deck shouted a warning and a barrage of masculine shouts and the crashing of wood ensued.
Vasili cursed, and Elizaveta let out a squeal of fright as something—or someone—forcibly struck the cabin door. The wood shrieked in protest, but the iron latch