My Angel (44 page)

"Get out of my room." The woman's voice trembled with rage.

"This isn't your room." Angela rose, no longer afraid of this woman who seemed all talk and bluster. This creature had no backbone. "Very well." Angela had never wanted to sleep in this room, but she didn't want to give in to this lady's demands, either.

She would have to. Because she would not be safely ensconced in Alexi's room as his new plaything when he returned.

A long silence followed while the two women studied each other.

"What room would you put me in?" Angela asked, not liking the smug expression the woman gave her. Angela picked up her valise and headed for the door.

"You will earn your keep here," the lady said. "And you will address me as Miss Feodora."

"I'd like to speak with Misha first." Angela felt serenely calm and, for the first time since leaving
New York
, in control of her life. She wanted to keep it that way.

"Misha was called away. Someone is threatening his family's estate. His father spoke of an emergency--life or death. He will not be back soon."

Misha is gone.

She no longer had a protector. A sliver of ice slipped down her spine. Then she shook the feeling of doom off. She didn't need anyone to protect her. She was Sam Chamberlain's daughter. She could take care of herself.

Angela's fingers closed over the handle of her valise. She stood straight and tall, waiting for Feodora to give her directions to another room. Instead Feodora sent her to the kitchen.

"The cook will tell you what to do," Feodora called out, "and perhaps if you do all your duties correctly, she'll give you a pallet near the fire so you can stay warm. Russian nights do get so very cold."

Not for one minute did Angela intend to do Feodora's bidding, no matter what the woman thought. No, she intended to pass through the kitchen and grab a bite to eat, nothing more. After that she'd find someplace where she could think and figure out what she should do next.

Chapter Fifteen

Alexi had sent Angela's caravan across the desert and into the hills, and while he watched the wagon she rode in disappear from view, the wind whistled an ominous sound. Fear twisted down his back, and chills swept through him.

"Misha, keep her safe." His whispered words haunted him and lodged deep in his heart. "Don't let anything happen to her."

Angela had given him her word. She would keep her promise. So why did he feel this gut-wrenching fear? A fear he could not shake.

He prayed nothing would happen to them. Bandits and outlaws roamed the mountains freely, but he'd left the caravan well guarded. Rebel groups had risen around the country, but Angela was no threat to them.

"Ready?" Ivan stood beside him.

He nodded.

Alexi, Ivan and half of Ivan's men rode out two hours after Angela's caravan left the busy port city for his estate. They rode nonstop through the night and into the next day, taking an hour of rest at one of the known watering holes on the way.

Twelve hours later they rode into what was left of the ravaged village. The men who had decimated it left little but the burned-out shell of a few homes. Smoke still rose from the ashes of the buildings; Ivan's own home had also been decimated.

Men, women and children were gathered at the edge of the
ruins in makeshift tents, tending to the sick and wounded. Babies cried from hunger and fatigue.

Alexi dismounted, then picked up a crying child and cradled the babe in his arms. The child looked at him with beautiful dark brown eyes and a curious expression just before he let out a loud, pitiful wail.

"Hush now, sweet one," Alexi said, rocking the child. He smoothed the dark hair on the baby's head, picturing a child of his and Angela's in his arms. His breathing stilled, the picture so vivid and real the impact on his heart stunned him.

"Hush," he whispered again. The little one was nuzzling him, his puckered mouth against his chest, searching for something Alexi could never give. Once again he thought on Angela, could picture her feeding his son, her angelic face, her soft hair flowing around her shoulders. "Allah."

What torment.

"Let's find your mother, shall we?" he crooned softly and rocked the child.

"That shouldn't be too difficult." Ivan nodded in the direction of a young woman who rushed toward them, arms held out.

The babe wailed louder. It seemed he knew exactly what he wanted.

Unable to stop the child's tears, Alexi handed the baby back to his mother.

"There you go," he told the infant, then turned. "Ivan!" he said harshly.

"I'm here," Ivan said, his shoulders tense, his voice racked with pain.

Ivan was there, talking to Najjar, making plans.

Ivan and Alexi set up a communications tent and began preparations to defend the villagers if the need arose again.

They spoke with everyone.

None of the villagers had seen anything but the death that surrounded them. All they had heard was the battle cry, "Revenge! Death to the tyrant!" When the attackers finally left, the people had worked feverishly to stop the fires and
rescue their friends and relatives still trapped inside the burning homes.

The attack had been planned and executed with great expertise. The army of men melted into the desert sands afterward and left few survivors in any shape to follow.

Alexi vowed retribution.

Ivan swore to the gods--the Christian one and Allah--that the demise of their enemies would be slow and torturous.

They had struck in the middle of night. It had been swift and merciless.

Revenge.

Alexi mulled the puzzling words over for hours.

Death to the tyrant.

Ivan was no tyrant, but his family was known for their despotic behavior. Then there was Feodora to consider. Her father had attacked once before. Now he had even more reason for retribution.

What if they never discovered the truth?

~ * ~

Angela Chamberlain sipped the hot black coffee and munched on the scones she'd pilfered from the kitchen when the cook wasn't looking. In a storage room, she had dressed in her buckskins and moccasins. Then she'd stridden from the grounds with her back straight and her chin pointed forward, never looking back.

The clear blue pond she'd passed while she rode on the wagon the evening before sparkled now with the dancing sun rays reflected upon it. The water beckoned for her to swim. Later, she thought, perhaps when the day warmed. A slight breeze blew in from the north, and a few high clouds lazed the day away. Toward the horizon was a bank of darker clouds.

The intolerable situation she found herself in left her vulnerable and angry, furiously so. Feodora was a dreadful woman, and Angela knew the lady had the potential to make her life miserable. Until Alexi returned, she'd have to be careful.

The intractable woman would become Alexi's wife.

Betrothed, indeed.
Feodora would make Alexi's life miserable.

An answer to her problems would occur to Angela if she waited long enough. Yet she had an eerie feeling she'd hesitated too long in making a decision, and any delay might prove to be her downfall. If Feodora had appeared in her life at any other place or time, Angela would have left without a glance over her shoulder. If she chose to stay, she would have had the means to fight Feodora.

She had given Alexi a promise.

She'd promised him she'd be here when he returned. Angela had been brought up to honor a promise, to treat them as sacred.

She sat beside the pond. Her mind adrift, she idly plucked a piece of grass, twirling it between her fingers as she concentrated, and thought hard on her alternatives.

She could stay here, but Feodora had single-handedly decided Angela would become a scullery maid. Not just a simple servant, but one of the lowest-ranking people on the estate.

Hard work didn't bother her. It was something she was used to. All her life she'd had chores to do, hard chores. But this was different. Feodora had maliciousness foremost in her thoughts. The estate had more than enough servants; she'd seen that when she'd walked through the house, into the kitchen then across the grounds.

Angela knew she could leave Alexi, make her own way, knew she would most likely succeed. The language, thanks to Misha's diligence and Alexi's tutoring, she now spoke tolerably well. She had her knife, her compass and enough knowledge in her head to survive in any wilderness for months, perhaps years, if she had to.