The Ice Swan полностью

She tugged at something deep within him, a part yet to be unlocked, since the day he’d called to her in the street. An irresistible pull that kept him tethered to her presence. If given the chance, what might he find at the end of their rope? Dare he dwell on the possibility of a key to unlock that hidden part?

He gently squeezed her hand, drawing her eyes to his. Eyes of pale blue. Melted were the ice shards she carried day to day and in their place was a vulnerable heartbeat.

“Perhaps next time we take a walk we might avoid injuries,” she said.

He curled his fingers and touched the sensitive skin inside her wrist. Elevated pulse. If he took his own, he bet it matched. “We do seem to attract them when we’re together.”

Steam billowed from the samovar, dousing the quiet moment they had escaped to. Svetlana yanked her hand back and jumped to her feet, the jerkiest movements he’d ever witnessed from her. She turned a knob on top of the spout and out poured hot water into the waiting teapot. Keeping her back to him, she busied herself pulling glasses with silver bottoms and handles from a cabinet.

“What business is a man about when he is shot in the street?” Gone was the tremor of vulnerability in her voice. In place once more reigned control.

Wynn rubbed his palm with his thumb, trying not to linger on the memory of her fingers curled against his. “From my experience, never anything good.”

“Yet you took pity on him. For all you know he could be a criminal, a murderous zealot.”

“Makes no difference if he’s the Archbishop of Canterbury or Jack the Ripper. I swore an oath to preserve all human life.”

“What made you choose such an oath?”

A question he’d been asked several times over on any given week. Finding his own path held far more appeal than traversing the well-laid one his title procured. Steadfast and secure was for Hugh, not him.

“As a second son there were only so many options available. Barrister. Too many rules. Clergyman. Even more restrictions and they don’t appreciate a sense of humor. Soldier. Well, I’d rather put people back together than a hole in them.”

The teapot gulped softly as Svetlana poured the amber brew into the glasses. “My father and brother are soldiers. The men in our family always are.”

A thousand questions flooded Wynn’s mind at the mention of her father and brother. “Are they still fighting in Russia?”

“They fight against those who would destroy everything, leaving nothing but a faint memory of what was once our glorious homeland.”

“Have you heard from them?”

“No.” She plunked the teapot on the counter, rattling the lid.

“In a war letters are difficult to—”

“Tea.” Her expression drawn tight, she placed one of the glasses in front of him. The personal conversation was over. “There is no sugar or milk, if you take them in your drink.”

“I’ve never had the luxury, at least not with the coffee I get at hospital. Faster to drink it straight and move on to the next patient. Spooning and stirring are for the gentleman at ease.”

Svetlana slid into her chair and raised her glass. “Santé.”

One minute they spoke of Russia and the next she was speaking in French. “Why do you speak French and not your native tongue?”

“I speak several languages; French is merely one of them.”

“How many is several?”

“French, English, Russian, Spanish, German, and a touch of Swedish. I can also read in Latin and Greek.”

“Impressive, but you still haven’t answered my question about your native tongue.”

“My native tongue is French, as it is for all the nobility in Petrograd. Peter the Great was enamored with all things French. He dignified it as the height of sophistication and brought the customs to what was once Petersburg. Anything Russian was and is considered déplaisant. My native tongue, as you put it, is spoken only by the peasants, of which many go on to become nannies for the nobles’ children. It is from the time in the nursery and our peasant nannies that we learn Russian.”

He’d heard enough French in the past four years. He wanted to hear her language. “What do Russians say to cheer?”

“Za zdarovje.” Warm and round and husky. “To your health.”

“Za zdarovje.” Wynn took a swallow and spit out the foulness accosting his mouth. “What’s in this?”

Svetlana’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Tea.”

He smelled the so-called tea. “Where did you get it?”

“The pouch. Little was left to be found.” She pointed to a small brown bag half hidden behind the samovar.

Grabbing the pouch from the counter, Wynn wafted it under his nose. “Stale tobacco. Did you not notice the smell?”

Red danced across Svetlana’s cheeks as she shook her head. “I never assumed identification was required in the making of a pot of tea.”