feet with a choked cry of relief. “Anya! Oh, God.”
Anya rushed forward. Elizaveta’s hands were crushed awkwardly between them, but Anya caught her friend in her arms for a joyous hug.
“Oh no!” Elizaveta gave a shuddering sob. “I didn’t mean for you to—”
Anya stroked her hair, noting her friend’s reddened eyes and split lip with a wave of anger. Vasili, or one of his men, had struck her too.
“Shh. It’s all right. I’m so glad to see you safe. Did he hurt you?”
“Vasili? He merely hit me a few times to say hello.”
Anya glared over her shoulder at Vasili, who’d stationed himself by the door. She tugged at the leather cord that bound her friend’s wrists. “Untie this at once.”
He shook his head. “Not until after we’re wed.” He sent her a mocking glance. “I’m not having her hit me over the head with anything this time. She can be a witness.”
Anya gazed around the cabin for something—anything—to use as a weapon. A spirit lamp hung from the rafters from a bent nail, but it was too high for her to reach. The map on the tabletop had been pinned at the four corners; perhaps she could stab him with one of those little tacks?
Completely at ease, Vasili shrugged out of his greatcoat. “I have a priest ready to marry us,” he said with a chilling smile. “Father Barukov’s come all the way from St. Petersburg.”
Anya’s stomach turned over in dismay. When she’d seen the ship, she’d assumed Vasili meant to take her back to Russia and perform the ceremony there. This was a disaster.
She clutched at her skirts—and felt the hard shape of a glass vial beneath her fingers. Her heart missed a beat. She’d forgotten Lagrasse’s sleeping potion. If only there was some way to make Vasili drink the stuff.
She pasted a conciliatory smile on her face and took a step forward. Vasili eyed her warily.
“Very well,” she said calmly. “I’m not such a fool that I can’t see when I’m beaten.”
Behind her, Elizaveta made a wordless sound of protest, but Anya shook her head.
“It’s true. Nobody’s coming to save us, Elizaveta, and I have no desire to be manhandled any more than I have been already. We might as well make the best of the situation.”
Vasili’s brows rose as he fought incredulity. “You’ll marry me? Without protest?”
Anya gave a delicate shrug. “What good would protesting do? If all those years in the Russian court taught me anything, it’s to be pragmatic. You wouldn’t be my first choice of husband, Petrov, but we need never see one another once this is done. Get your priest. Let’s get this over with.”
Vasili still looked suspicious at her capitulation, but he turned and stepped out onto the deck.
As soon as Anya heard him turn the key in the lock, she rushed over to the bottle of vodka she’d spied on a side table. She tugged the cork out with her teeth, poured two large shots, and divided the meagre contents of the mandrake potion equally between the two glasses.
“What’s that?” Elizaveta whispered.
“A sleeping draught. I can’t be sure which one Vasili will take. If necessary, I’ll drink it too, to allay his suspicions.”
A shudder of disquiet ran through her as she remembered what Sebastien had said. She had no idea of the proper dose; a few drops had been enough to render Stoke and Alvanley unconscious back at the Tricorn. But they’d both been near-insensible with drink anyway. Wolff had said it would take longer to work on someone who was sober, but how long was that? Ten minutes? Half an hour?
There were more than a few drops in each glass. What if it proved fatal?
Anya let out a steadying breath and faced that possibility. There was no hope of rescue; Sebastien had no idea where she was. Was death really preferable to marring Vasili? Yes. She had no doubt that he intended to dispose of her soon enough anyway, through some tragic “accident” that would eliminate the threat of exposure once and for all. She could only be thankful that he’d decided to wed her first—to get his hands on her money—rather than just kill her immediately. Hopefully his greed would prove his downfall.
She picked up both glasses and went over to glance through the window of the cabin.
Vasili stood over an open hatchway where a set of steps led belowdeck. “Father Barukov, you may attend to us now,” he called down.
Muffled footsteps came from below and a cloaked and