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laughed. ‘As secret as all that? If you know where they are, how secret can they be?’ Then she sobered as realisation hit her. ‘You know because you’re a member.’

      ‘No, not exactly,’ Ruslan hurried to clarify. ‘I’ve done some work for them. I’m not an official member.’ Neither were his friends, but Nikolay and Illarion were indeed closely aligned with the group. ‘I share their goals, but not their methods,’ Ruslan explained. ‘They want a constitutional monarchy. I don’t disagree with that. But they are willing to see it done at the cost of armed revolt. Violence in the name of democratic progress is acceptable to them. It is not acceptable to me.’ It was easier for Nikolay, he was a soldier. He’d been raised to violence, but Ruslan was a diplomat.

      Dasha pondered the information. ‘The Rebels Captain Varvakis speaks of are members, then?’

      Ruslan nodded. She was quick, intelligent. ‘Yes. They are most definitely behind the Rebel forces. They will want a monarch who will work with their new parliament, if they tolerate a monarch at all.’ He highly suspected, drunk on their own power, they’d want a monarch they could control, a person of their own choosing, or that they’d see no need for a monarch at all. While he, as a student of John Locke’s teachings, was not opposed to such models of self-government, such an arrangement did pose a danger to Dasha.

      She saw that danger immediately. ‘They will not want a Tukhachevsken. They will want to start fresh. But the Loyalists will cling to the old, to the Tukhachevsken name.’ She paused, her fair brows knitting in thought. ‘Certainly, that is a danger if I return. But you said as long as I was in London that threat was negligible due to distance.’

      ‘It would be, if the Union was limited to Russia and Kuban. The concern is that Russian émigrés have a cell of the Union here, that they will learn of your presence if you declare yourself, and, not having the insights or guidance of the Moderates in Kuban who see you as a bridge to peace, they will act on their own and seek to eliminate you.’ And by doing so, fuel open civil war.

      ‘You’re talking about assassination,’ Dasha replied coldly, her face pale.

      ‘Yes, I am. And civil war, too, if they are successful.’ If she didn’t want him to dress up the facts then he wouldn’t, although he would spare her the weight of these decisions if he could. It hardly seemed fair after all she’d been through to add to her burdens.

      She rose from the bench, pacing, as she thought. ‘Is anonymity even a possibility any longer? After last night, so many people know. And now, Madame Delphine...’ Her voice trailed off, implying the rule that secrets were hard to keep among many. At least nine people knew there were aspirations of her being the Princess.

      ‘Those men at dinner have no desire to expose you against your will or to trigger a civil war with their carelessness. I personally assure their discretion,’ Ruslan vowed.

      ‘And Madame Delphine? Can you vouch for her, too? Dressmakers are notorious gossips. It’s good for their business.’

      ‘You have nothing to fear from Madame Delphine.’ Ruslan chuckled. ‘Do you think I would allow such a woman as you describe near you?’ Perhaps he was bragging a bit here, wanting to impress this intriguing woman who matched him thought for thought.

      Dasha looked up, recognition sparking in her eyes. She smiled. ‘She is one of yours, isn’t she? An émigrée you helped reinvent herself.’ She blew out a breath. ‘What happens if I don’t go back? If I let you reinvent me?’

      ‘Then the various factions will have to find a new leader. Hopefully they can do it peacefully. I think there’s a better chance of that if they think there was no choice, that you died with the family, than if the Loyalists think you were deliberately gunned down in London by the opposition.’ Ruslan watched her dissect his words.

      ‘But the very best chance of a peaceful transition is if I go back and become the bridge between all factions,’ she surmised. ‘Is that what you want?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter what I want,’ Ruslan challenged carefully. She was watching him closely. ‘Varvakis has asked me to protect you until the situation is resolved. That is all.’

      ‘That is not all. It does matter. Why are you doing all of this for me if not to get something for yourself in return? Why would you simply do what Varvakis asks?’

      Why indeed? He had shared uncomfortable truths with her and now it was time for him to face some of his own. His dilemma was a strong one. Who did he protect? The woman who stood before him, or the country that might be born with his help? Protecting the woman would mean hiding her away along with her true identity, to let Princess Dasha fade into history. To birth the nation his father had died for, his mother had died for, Nikolay and Illarion had suffered for, might require permitting Dasha to become a sacrifice. ‘Can’t I simply do this for you in memory of your brothers?’ He opted for an easy answer. ‘I would help you, as a way to honour them.’ He rose and brushed his hands against his breeches. It was time to head back before she could ask any more uncomfortable questions. But his efforts were too late.

      ‘That’s a nice sentiment,’ Dasha replied sharply, her tone implying she didn’t believe him. ‘Is that why you wouldn’t kiss me last night? Because I am the little sister of your friends? Or because I might become the future Tsarina instead of another anonymous émigrée?’ A more perceptive woman Ruslan had yet to meet. Damn that perceptiveness, though. He could do with a bit less of it.

      ‘Perhaps both.’ He trod carefully here. Kissing princesses came with political entanglements. He was aware of the emptiness of the park, the light breeze. No one would know what transpired here, no one would hold them accountable. But they would. Kissing her was still a bad idea.

      She reached for his hand with a touch that made his blood pound even through their gloves. ‘If I was nothing but an émigrée woman like Madame Delphine, would you kiss me?’

      Yes. Without hesitation. His objectivity was under siege.

      She moved into him, her arms about his neck, her hands in his hair. For a young woman raised in the seclusion of the palace, Dasha was bold. ‘Then, it’s best you kiss me now, I think, while I am still in limbo, while I am still nothing.’

      ‘You could never be “nothing”.’ Ruslan’s response was a low rasp.

      ‘Then what are you afraid of, Ruslan Pisarev?’ Her hips shifted against him in subtle, perhaps accidental invitation. Lord, the woman was a temptress.

      ‘I’m not afraid,’ Ruslan growled. Her physicality flooded his body with abrupt desire, her convenient logic flooding his better judgement. He was going to regret mixing business with pleasure, but perhaps it would be worth it to prove to her a kiss was not worth the crown. Better she learn that lesson from a man she could trust, whether she knew it or not, than from a man who would not hesitate to manipulate those desires for his own gain, and there would be plenty of those if she went back. He would not always be there to protect her, but he was here now and perhaps this kiss was a sort of protection. Feeling justified in his rationale, he bent his head and captured her mouth, all for the purpose of instruction...

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