held. The sickening sound of fists connecting with bone, the crunch of something that might have been a nose breaking, and a bellow of pain followed. Twin flashes of light pierced the darkness beyond the cabin window and the crack of pistols followed almost instantaneously.
Vasili pushed the priest aside, caught Anya around the waist, and pulled her back against his body to act as a human shield.
“In here!” Anya shouted, then gasped as Vasili squeezed her ribs hard enough to crush the air from her lungs. She froze as the cold metal of his pistol kissed her temple.
“Be still,” he commanded.
There was a deafening crash and the splintering of wood as the door to the cabin was kicked in. Wolff shouldered his way through, a pair of pistols aimed straight at Vasili. But he stilled when he saw Anya held captive in front of him.
“Hold!” Vasili shouted.
Anya’s heart quailed. Wolff looked both savage and magnificent. Blood was smeared across his cheek—she couldn’t tell if it was his own or not. His cravat was askew and the arm of his jacket had been ripped at the shoulder. It gaped open to reveal the stark white of his shirt. His chest rose and fell in a series of uneven gusts.
The expression on his face was one she’d never seen before. Two spots of red flushed his cheekbones, but his eyes were cold, almost entirely black as he glared at Vasili. He looked like an avenging angel searching for a soul to claim, and Anya’s heart swelled with terror and love. Behind him stood Wylde and Harland, one on each side, both with pistols at the ready.
“Let her go,” Sebastien said coldly.
Vasili’s arm tightened around her waist. “Put your weapons down. I have the advantage. You’re too much the gentleman to shoot a woman.” He let that sink in for a moment then added, “Whereas we both know I’m a heartless bastard with nothing to lose. I’ll have no difficulty at all in shooting my wife. She’s served her purpose, after all.”
Wolff’s gaze flicked to hers for an agonized moment, then narrowed in renewed fury on Vasili’s face. “Wife?” he whispered.
“That’s right,” Vasili crowed. “You’re too late. We’ve already wed. She’s mine.”
Anya gasped. “No! That’s not—oof!” Her denial was cut off by another cruel jerk of Vasili’s arm.
A muscle ticked in Wolff’s jaw, but he didn’t lower his pistol. Anya opened her eyes very wide, silently pleading with him to take a shot. He was an excellent marksman. He’d shot that highwayman on Hounslow Heath in a similar situation, hadn’t he? Surely there was some part of Vasili he could hit without endangering her. She suddenly remembered she was holding the map pin. Perhaps if she ducked and stabbed Vasili somewhere?
But the frustration on Wolff’s face showed that Vasili had guessed the truth; Seb wouldn’t fire while there was a gun to her head. No matter how good a shot he was, he wouldn’t risk Vasili’s finger tightening on the trigger in a reflex action.
Anya almost sobbed as he used his thumbs to uncock the pistols. He lowered them, but his eyes still burned with the promise of vengeance. “You might have married her, but she’ll never be yours.” His gaze flicked to her, and the emotion she saw there made her stomach swoop. “You’ll be a widow soon enough.”
“Step back,” Vasili snarled. “You and your friends get off this ship or she dies.”
Wolff’s lips flattened into an angry line, but he did as Vasili commanded. Anya bit back a whimper as he backed through the shattered remains of the door and retreated across the deck.
Please. Don’t leave me! I love you!
She pressed her lips closed to stop the traitorous words. A strange lassitude was stealing over her, a kind of tingling lethargy, and her stomach swooped as she realized its cause; the potion was starting to work. Please God that it would start to affect Vasili too.
The tense standoff was shattered by an eerie, inhuman groan that echoed from the depths of the ship.
Everyone froze as a hunched figure stumbled up the steps from below. When he straightened, Anya was confused to see an old man, wearing nothing but a cotton nightshirt. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was intruding on a battlefield. He peered around the crowded deck, groaning piteously and clutching his forehead as though he’d received a recent blow.
Vasili frowned at the ancient figure. “Father Barukov?” His head whipped around to the priest in the cabin. “Then