Wynn strode through the weeds and captured her hand before she had the chance to take a limping step. “I don’t know what you’re running from in Russia, though I can venture a guess, but you don’t have to be frightened any longer.”
“You do not know. You do not understand what fear is.”
Living the past four years in a war zone gave him every right to understand the meaning of fear, but the look blazing in her eyes spoke of something more, a crippling terror he’d not seen before. Not knowing how to root out the pain, he nodded and looped her arm around his. “I’ll take you inside.”
Her hand was cool against his forearm. Slight callouses rested at the base of her long fingers. Signs of refined hands adjusting to recent hardships. Likely she had never had to pick up an item a day in her life. Until now, when she was clothed in ripped skirts scrounging in a weedy garden. Yet not one ounce of dirt could diminish the regal way with which she held herself.
“Before you say ‘don’t come back,’ know that I will come back. Tomorrow or the next time I’m off shift,” Wynn said.
“You are a difficult man to say no to.”
“Another trait of my profession. We’re hard to refuse when a gangrenous limb hangs in the balance.”
Her brow puckered in confusion, then suddenly smoothed. “Ah. Another joke.”
“Medical humor. If we can’t heal you, we’ll kill you with terrible comedy.”
“Maybe it is better you continue with medicine instead.” A light sparked in her eyes. Was that the verge of a smile?
Wynn’s heart rate bumped up. “Maybe you’re right.”
Across the courtyard, Mrs. Varjensky had pushed aside one of the other women to stir a boiling pot of soup herself. At the
sight of them, she bustled over and handed him a jar filled with vegetable broth. “
Wynn glanced at her other hand that held the cracked teapot. Familiar green leaves poked out of the spout. Biting back a laugh, he stuffed the newly picked but unneeded comfrey into the teapot.
“
“It is better you continue with medicine.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He pulled out the lily he had clipped secretly from the garden and handed it to her. “Until next time.”
The corners of her mouth flitted up as she took the flower. It wasn’t quite the smile he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t a frown.
He would take it as a victory.
* * *
“He has made you smile.” Mama’s thin eyebrows raised in accusation as soon as Svetlana, holding the lily, stepped into their shared blanket quadrant.
Svetlana pulled the makeshift curtain tight, cutting off the smell of boiled cabbage that permeated the cellar. The elusive emotion of enjoyment and the sweet scent of the lily that had floated around her a moment earlier deflated.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You are engaged to Sergey.”
“I am not. An informal, unspoken understanding at the most.”
“You are as good as engaged. Sergey is one of our kind—the only kind—and a dear friend to our family for years. Do not forget this.”
How could she, when not for one moment did Mama allow it? Man after man had been paraded before her at every ball and concert, the most successful venues for finding acceptable husbands. Men with all the right titles, family wealth, and political ties, but without a bone of enticement to hold them upright. Perhaps one day a man would fit her credentials.
“I have no intention of falling in love right now. If such a thing is even possible.”
Mama scoffed and batted her small hand in the air as if to chase off Svetlana’s ludicrous notion. “Love has nothing to do
with a successful marriage. It is a sentiment best reserved for the
It was doubtful the poor had more claim on matters of the heart than the nobility, but speaking of peasants would only fall on Mama’s deaf ear. A mar on the otherwise glittering world she hoped to return to.
“He’s—” Svetlana cut short her defense of Wynn as she reached for an empty milk jar. He’d asked her not to reveal him as Marquis of Tarltan. While she had no intention of surrendering her trust to him, she still respected a promise when given. Pouring a bit of precious water into the jar, she gently slipped the flower into the glass. How beautiful these would be planted in a garden next to roses, freesia, buttercups, and peonies. Trouble could not touch them in such a peaceful place. “He is dedicated to his profession.”
“As if that concerns us. You are a princess. A blood relation to Tsar Nicholas himself.”
“A third cousin twice removed, I believe.”
“Still blood. We are set apart by God Himself.” Mama spit over her left shoulder so as not to tempt Fate.