She lifted her hand, touched her fingers to his cool cheek. “I am not in danger, Zivon.”
“You could be. I have enemies, and they seem to have found me. Whatever it is that has put the admiral on his guard, it is their work, I am certain.”
The Bolsheviks? Here, in London? That didn’t seem possible. From what she’d read—and the little he or her father had told her—the political situation in Russia was far too chaotic for them to spare precious resources for hunting down one stray naval officer.
She brushed her fingertips along his jaw. “I obviously can’t speak to that. But I can promise you that whatever this trouble is, we’ll sort it out. Solve it.”
His lips turned up. “You cannot promise. I wish you could. But I will promise you something, milaya. I will never put you in the position of wondering if I am using you. Tell me nothing that the admiral or your father says. Tell me nothing you see in your work for them. Never disobey him.”
“After this.”
“After this.” He leaned in just a bit more, touched his lips to her cheek in a move too soft, too lingering to be classified as a simple kiss. “My one request—not a direct disobedience, though likely only because he did not yet think of it. Letters—may I write to you? Send them with Clarke? I am told this is how one courts a girl here in England.”
With all that had gone wrong in the last day, such words shouldn’t be able to make a thrill course through her. But they did. “I would like that.”
He kissed her then. Not an invisible touch, like in the car. There was heat in this one, and the urgency that came of not even knowing when next they’d see each other. She could taste his grief and his determination and his wish that it could be different. No doubt because they mirrored her own.
When he pulled away, his breath was ragged. “I never . . . I never thought I was the sort of man who would feel this way. Certainly not now.”
That thrill coursed again. “I wish This Lily were here. She would have something clever to say.”
He chuckled. “I do not need clever flirtations. Just these precious moments in your company. They will see me through the long days ahead.”
Days, perhaps even weeks or months, without seeing him. Without snapping his picture. Without trying to reveal one more layer.
Days, perhaps weeks or months, when he would have no one to believe in him.
“The last time we were standing by this tree, I told you I trusted no one. But I have found that this is untrue.” He pressed one more kiss to her lips and then pulled away a few inches, his gaze tangled with hers. “I trust you, Lilian Blackwell. I have from the first.”
A sweeter declaration than one of love at this moment. She rested her hand over his heart, as she had daringly done that day. “Zivon, I need you to promise me one thing more.”
“Anything.”
“Last night, when you spoke of what the Bolsheviks did . . .” There, his eyes darkened again. She pressed a bit more against his heart. “Guard yourself against those feelings. It’s understandable that you hate them. But—”
“I do not hate them.” Yet even as he said it, vitriol filled his words. “We are told to love our enemies.”
Her smile no doubt looked sad. “We are. But you do not. If you trust me, then hear me in this. They have already stolen so much from you. Don’t let them steal your heart. They’ll ruin it.”
He frowned, but he didn’t argue. He wanted to, she could tell. But instead, he reached into his pocket, coming out with a small piece of paper. A photograph. He pressed it into her hands. “This is all I have left of my family. They were always my heart. Will you keep it for me?”
She glanced down, saw the image of two lads, the familiar Parisian landmark behind them. She slid it into her bag. “You know I will.”
16
TUESDAY, 28 MAY 1918
Nadya disappeared behind one of the shelves in the grocer’s, scowling at the largely empty space while Evgeni, blast him, smiled at the girl behind the counter, leaning into it as if he had all the time in the world. According to him, he could wheedle supplies from the shopkeeper’s daughter.
He probably could. The question was, how did he achieve this miracle? She’d come along to find out. Though when he gave the girl the grin Nadya clearly remembered from the first time they’d met, she began to regret her decision.
“Bonsoir, Claire.”
The girl grinned back, of course. And darted a glance around the store. According to Evgeni, her father didn’t much care for him.
Smart man. If ever a fellow was a danger to a daughter, it was Evgeni Marin. Nadya peeked between the shelves so she could see without being seen.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come to see me this evening, Zhenya.” The chit twirled a dark curl around her finger.
“And miss out on some of the only joy to find in a day?” He winked and made a show of peering over the counter to see what might be behind it. “The shelves are a bit bare. Have I waited too long?”
Her laugh was low and soft. “You know I put something back for you.” She said it with a smile . . . but unless Nadya had gotten worse at reading silly girls, she also said it lightly. As if it were a game, nothing more.
Nadya’s muscles relaxed a bit. She could handle a harmless flirtation if it meant food.
Claire pulled out a parcel from under the counter. “You know the deal, Zhenya.”
He laughed and made himself comfortable, apparently not prickling any over the nickname. Why should he? Most people used it—all but Nadya. Still, it sounded odd to hear it spill from a French girl’s lips.
“All right.” He tapped a finger to his chin in a caricature of thought. “Have I told you the story of the Crystal Mountain yet?”
“Last week.”
“Ah yes. What about Princess Never-a-Smile?”
“That was the first tale you told me.” Her bottom lip came out in an inane little pout she probably thought was attractive. “As well you know.”
“Hmm.” He stroked his chin, though no doubt he already knew what tale he planned to tell. “I know! The Snake Princess.”
“I do love the ones with a princess.” The girl sat on the stool behind the counter, grinning. “Let us see what odd turns this one takes.”
Nadya rolled her eyes at the shelf. A pretty girl who liked princess stories. Could she be any more cliché? Evgeni didn’t actually like such girls, did he? If so, then he must be miserable with Nadya.
“It begins with a Cossack—a young man, well worn from travel and fighting. He ventured off the road for a rest and found a haystack in the middle of a grove of trees. That seemed like a perfect bed, so he made himself comfortable and even enjoyed a pipe.”
Claire’s brows lifted. “Always wise around hay.” So perhaps the girl wasn’t utterly senseless.
Evgeni narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger. “Do not get ahead of the story.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“As I was saying. He enjoyed his repose and soon got back to his feet, not noticing that a spark fell from his pipe and landed on the hay until the whole thing went up.”
“I am all surprise.”