Page 72 of The Baron Takes a Wife

Elena felt something fly by her ear, so close it almost sliced the side of her face. A knife? The next thing she knew, she had been tackled to the ground, and Irene was screaming. She smelled cloves and tobacco and something else—Anatole. He’d always had a way with knives.

Elena struggled against Anatole, who had always been wiry but was now fighting her with the energy of a rabid animal. However, in his focus, he did not seem to notice Irene. Of course, a small woman would be inconsequential to him. She briefly wondered if that had been him in London when she was with Annamaria or with Sophie. He only seemed to dare approach her if she was alone or with another woman.

“Irene, you have to get help. You have to go!” she shouted, her voice much harsher than she had ever spoken to Irene before.

Anatole’s hands found her neck to silence her. Before he could, she hit him in the center of his chest, and though he gasped, he did not move his weight off her. Instead, his hands went straight to her wrists to pin her down.

Irene stared at Elena helplessly, seeming unable to step in for fear she might hurt Elena or get hurt in the process. Anatole was so wholly focused that he still did not seem to register Irene. She realized that sending her away would save her even if Irene couldn’t get help in time. Anatole always had multiple knives, and they were both unarmed.

It didn’t matter what happened to her now, Elena thought. She needed to save David’s little sister. Her sister in her heart. She could see Irene’s torn expression over Anatole’s shoulder as Elena drew on her last ounce of strength to get the words out.

“Irene. Go. You need to get help. I can hold him, little sister.”

Irene’s eyes widened for a moment as something passed between them, and then she turned and took off running. Oblivious to Irene’s departure, Anatole twisted Elena’s wrist, then used his forearms to brace against her chest. He brought his head down and pushed her bonnet aside so that he could whisper in her ear. Up close, he smelled even worse than she could have imagined, as a burnt, rotting scent filled her nose and left a metallic taste in her mouth.

He spoke in Russian, his voice harsh and guttural. “You think your English lord will save you? He will thank me for ridding him of his peasant whore. I can’t believe I let filth like you convince me to run away.”

Elena knew that if she could keep him talking, she could wait until help came. They would come. She just hoped in time.

“I seem to remember it was your idea, Anatole. You begged me,” she responded in Russian.

He raised his hand as if to strike her. She flinched but couldn’t move him off her.

“I’ve never begged a woman before. You seduced me to take your innocence like the filthy peasant slut you are.” He used the back of his hand to hit her across the face.

The anvil fears no blow. His hand felt like nothing. His words felt like nothing. She felt nothing. She only saw her goal: she had to keep him talking. She thought she heard a dog bark in the distance, but Anatole was still so focused on her that he did not seem to notice. She struggled against his arms but could not break free.

“You don’t even know where my family is, do you? You lied like you always do!”

“What do I care for filthy traitors to the patriarch, to the tsar? They should have fought for us,” he spat. “But you, you deserve to suffer. You’ll pay for abandoning me. For everything that followed.”

“How did you find me?” It was all she could think to ask to keep him talking. She was still so shocked to see him. She couldn’t believe she had thought herself in love with this cruel, wiry man. She had been so young and naïve then. How could she have known his first response to crisis would be violence?

“Did you doubt I would? There were rumors that an English lord married a girl who looked like you. One with a scar. Of course I remembered my own handiwork.”

As he spoke, he ran his finger across her temple, and Elena recoiled as if burned. She didn’t mind when David ran his fingers down her scar, as his hands always had a gentleness to them despite their rough texture. But Anatole’s grimy touch felt like a violation of her very soul. She recognized that smell now from his hands as they lingered at her cheek. It was the smell of dried blood.

“When you didn’t respond to my letter, I found out you left town and followed you to the estate. I’ve been living in the woods, waiting for a glimpse of you alone.”

“Why? Why would you do all of this? Why come after me?”

He grabbed her face with one hand, turning her jaw toward him, and he looked directly into her eyes. For a moment, he seemed calm, almost rational, and she thought she saw a glimpse of that boy she thought she knew. Then he spoke, and his voice was so unsettling that Elena felt fear unlike any she had known.

“Because you had to pay, Elena. You couldn’t do what you did to me and then live a life of luxury as a fine lady. Blood for blood.”

“I took no blood from you! I did nothing to you, Anatole.”

“You bewitched me. You used your lures to make me leave my mission. The Imperial army turned back at Sillistra. The Orthodox in the Ottoman Empire did not fight for the tsar as they should have. My information was not good enough.”

She looked at the hands and arms that gripped her under ragged, torn clothes. Nothing but skin and bone, covered in scars. Torture. She suddenly understood. He had likely been harshly punished for the information he brought back or for leaving his post and had to blame someone for what happened to him.

“I am sorry for what happened to you, Anatole.”

“I wouldn’t have left but for you! And then you left me,” he hissed.

“I just wanted my family’s blessing, not to run off like thieves in the night. I tried to explain—”

“Oh, you explained enough. You made me love you, and you left me.” By this point, he had both of her wrists in a vise grip. However, if he held her wrists, he would have to move his hands to do anything else.