Awakened By The Prince’s Passion. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
mounting, tipping the scale against the one niggling ‘what if’ that remained.
What if she wasn’t who Varvakis thought she was? Was it enough doubt to risk the fate of a nation?
It would be so much easier if she could simply believe the Captain.
* * *
‘You believe the Captain. You’re going to help them,’ Stepan said with characteristic boldness and no small hint of accusation as they sat over early evening drinks at White’s. The table between them was cluttered with bottles in varying degrees of emptiness. It was always drinks, plural, with Stepan. A little vodka, a little samogon, a little whisky on occasion. Stepan thought Englishmen were too boring, too predictable with their predilection for a constant brandy.
Ruslan sat back in his chair. The emptiness of the bottles was making them both bold. ‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t? Perhaps it’s my patriotic duty. A soldier travels across a continent and an angry sea with the only surviving member of the ruling family, shows up on my doorstep and asks for help in the name of a peaceful transition, a transition you and I were exiled for, if I might remind you. That seems like a good reason to help.’
Stepan took a long swallow from his glass. ‘For a man who considers all angles, you’re taking a lot on face value, including the most basic question: Is Varvakis telling the truth? It’s rather convenient for him and for the Moderates to be in possession of such a valuable commodity as Dasha Tukhachevskenova and have her remember nothing, not even who she is. That doesn’t even begin to explore the profit in being able to produce this valuable commodity at the right time. Need I point out how this will position Varvakis and his friends for the future? Right behind the throne?’
Something clenched inside Ruslan. He didn’t like Stepan discussing Dasha as a commodity, yet that’s what she was, what she had to be if he were to keep his detachment. Objectivity was crucial to an organiser, especially one who specialised in organising escapes. Risk analysis, he liked to call it. Without it, bad decisions were made. Dasha was merely another cargo to transport from one destination to another. ‘Are you suggesting she’s not who she says she is?’ Ruslan swirled his drink, not wanting to admit Stepan might
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