arms anchored her to the earth. She burrowed deeper into the delightful sensation, recalling the pleasure of being held, the warmth of his breath against the top of her head, the reassuring feel of his heartbeat beneath her shoulder.
An involuntary shudder ran through her. God, how easily that strong heart could have stopped if Vasili’s aim had been true. The terror she’d felt when first Seb, and then Dmitri, had been in his sights rushed over her anew. The two men she loved most in the world. She couldn’t imagine life without either of them.
Soft sounds began to intrude upon her consciousness. The click of a door. The crackle of a fire. The tick of a clock. She let them flow over her like water.
Her thoughts eventually became more definite. Petrov really was dead. Which meant the threat that had haunted her for so long had finally been eliminated. Anya knew she ought to feel some emotion other than relief at Vasili’s demise, but she couldn’t seem to dredge up much sympathy. Better men than him had died because of his treasonous deeds. Justice had been served, even if it had taken a slightly circuitous route.
A noise somewhere beyond her snagged her attention. The deep, comforting rumble of male voices trying to speak quietly. Anya listened, not quite ready to open her eyes.
“Why isn’t she waking up?”
That was Dmitri’s voice, so dear and unexpectedly sweet that her heart contracted with fierce joy.
“She will.”
That was Sebastien, his tone slightly less confident than usual. Anya suppressed a smile. He sounded worried about her. How wonderful.
“She might not wake for another few hours,” Seb said. “You might as well give me an account of your adventures, Denisov, to pass the time. What happened to you? The princess thought you were dead.”
Anya realized that she was in a bed. But where? Was she back at the dowager duchess’s house? Her own tiny Covent Garden apartment? She opened her eyes just a crack and recognized the deep burgundy hangings of Sebastien’s bedchamber. So, she was back at the Tricorn. A wash of inexplicable pleasure warmed her.
“Not dead,” Dmitri said from her left side. “Merely insensible. The last thing I remember from the battle itself was a giant of a Frenchman coming at me with a saber—and then nothing, until I woke up to find someone tugging on my legs. The battle was long over. It was the following day, and some cheeky sod was trying to steal the boots right off my feet! I sat up and must have given him a dreadful shock because he took one look at me, all covered in gore, and screamed as if he’d seen the devil himself. I shouted right back at him. He dropped my feet and took off running.”
Dmitri let out a wry chuckle at the macabre image, and the sound was echoed by a deep rumble from her right. Sebastien was sitting next to the bed; the familiar scent of him teased her nostrils.
“I must have lost consciousness again,” Dmitri continued, “because when I next awoke, I was in a cart, being dragged to a hospital in Antwerp. My skull had been cracked like the shell of an egg. My recovery took months, and I quickly discovered that there were huge gaps in my memory. I could recall some things with amazing clarity—like the time Anya got stuck in the tree in the orchard when she was eight and threw plums at me when I tried to help her down.”
Anya smiled inwardly at the memory, but didn’t open her eyes. She heard Seb exhale lightly.
“That sounds like the kind of thing she would do.”
Her heart gave a little somersault. Was she just imagining the dry fondness in his tone?
Dmitri snorted. “Unfortunately, I’d forgotten the few months prior to the battle. I didn’t recall being in Vienna, or General di Borgo, or the fact that Anya was waiting for me in Paris. I thought she was safely back in St. Petersburg. As soon as I was well enough to travel, I set off home. I was almost in Moscow when I finally remembered everything.
“I’d been looking into rumors that someone was passing information to the French, and I’d intercepted a letter that proved it was Petrov. I was going to give it to the Tsar at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, but the orders came to march to Waterloo—at three in the morning. I stashed the letter at the inn, intending to return for it later.”
Anya