My Wild Horse King, page 2
“Why not?” I can’t help myself. “If I’m old enough to get married, aren’t I old enough to find out about it?”
Father steps into plain view, his eyes flinty, and he straightens his coat. “I think you’ll find that not much changes for women, when they become old enough to marry. Instead of listening to me, you’ll simply be expected to listen to your husband.”
“I don’t have a husband.” I frown. “And sometimes it barely feels like I have a father.”
My dad’s hand moves so quickly that I barely see it before his palm striking my cheek sends my entire body flying toward the wall. The sound of my body slapping into the wall is so loud that I can’t tell whether it was the force or the sound that sets my ears ringing.
“My Lord, beating her just before a ball is not a good plan,” Mrs. Cerny says softly. “It begins in less than two hours.”
Once the spots clear from my eyes, I see our housekeeper standing a suitable distance behind my father, her head bowed. She may not dare to defy him, but she did defend me in her way. I appreciate the effort, however feeble.
“You will go to your room and rest until the ball,” Father says sharply. “And when you come down, you’ll be reconciled to the idea of marriage.” He drops his voice. “It should hardly be a new one. You’ve known that proper ladies marry since the day you were born.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t even notice the rip in the dress, so that feels like a small win. The bad news is that my lady’s maid insists she can’t repair it quickly enough for the ball without leaving visible lines, so I’m stuck choosing. I can wear a gown from last year, with skirts that are noticeably too short, or I can pin a strange sash over the clumsy repair.
I opt for the sash.
Who knows? Maybe it’ll start a new trend, even if the gown is pale cream with green flourishes while the sash is bright blue.
I’ve certainly seen stranger things.
As I walk down the stairs, I notice that Dad and Boris are both waiting at the bottom for me. “You, too?” I lift my chin. “And you’re fine with it?”
Boris—ten years older than me—has never been much of a brother, but I always thought that if it came down to it, he’d do whatever it took to keep me safe. “Lord Engelhardt’s respectable. You shouldn’t fight Father about this.”
As I step onto the main floor, my jaw drops. “You—not only do you approve of marrying me off, but you’ve already picked out the man?”
Father and Boris wear nearly identical expressions of immutable resolve. I pelt them with questions the entire carriage ride to the Winter Palace, but they either deflect or outright refuse to answer all of them.
“At least tell me about this Lord Engelhardt,” I say. “Is he my age? Is he tall? Short? Where does he live?”
Father compresses his lips, glancing out the window of our carriage and watching resolutely as we pull up in front of the massive, three-story-tall green and white palace. The windows appear to be practically endless as we roll past, but eventually our carriage comes to a stop in the front.
“He’s very wealthy,” Father finally says. “And he’s delighted to meet you and finalize your engagement tonight.” As if that’s all the information I could possibly want, he climbs out of the carriage and strides toward the massive front doors, leaving Boris and me to scramble along behind him.
“I checked,” Boris says. “He’s not a terrible person.”
Not a terrible person.
Four words to describe the man they’re marrying me off to—hardly reassuring. I gather up my skirts and race after him. “But have you spoken to him? Do you know him at all?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Boris says.
“Why not?” I know I sound like a whining child, but I can’t help it. Boris will never have a moment in his life where critical things are being decided about him without his input—he’s a man. They get to make decisions for themselves. As my brother, I thought he might show a bit more of an interest in what happens to me.
“Listen.” Boris stops, grabbing my right arm and spinning me to face him. “You didn’t have a mother to teach you anything, and people have made accommodations for that, but you will not embarrass Father and me today. Am I clear?”
I open my mouth, and then I realize I’m not sure what to say.
He shakes me.
“You’ve made no promises to me,” I finally say. “So why should I promise anything to you?”
Boris sighs, releasing my arm. “You’re a disaster. Let’s hope Lord Engelhardt is too dumb to care.”
“I don’t see how you could not know him,” I say. “You’ve been coming to these balls forever.”
“He’s not often in attendance,” Boris says. “He happened to see you at a picnic last week, and he reached out to Father with a proposal.”
I caught his eye somehow? But how? And when? I don’t recall ever dancing with a Lord Engelhardt.
As we pass through the open doors, Father’s already talking to someone. Someone older than he is. Someone with slate-grey hair. Someone who’s smiling—beaming, really—and gesturing in my direction.
Boris doesn’t know him, because he’s older than our father. They don’t move in the same circles—not even close. “Is that Lord Engelhardt?” I hiss.
“It is,” Boris says. “Now, be polite.”
I’ve watched, each spring, as the shepherds lead the little sheep through the gate and into the barn to slaughter them. I’ve always wondered why they didn’t struggle, or even try to flee.
Not me, I think. I won’t walk toward that man with an insipid smile on my face. Father will have to chase after me with a whip and a rope if he means to kill me for the good of his estate.
I spin on one heel and sprint to the right, colliding painfully with another person wearing a large and voluminous gown.
“Ow.” As I straighten, I realize that the blow dislodged my sash and the strain reopened the tear that was rather hastily repaired.
The woman I collided with is wearing a large headdress, and she looks angrier than I imagine my father must be. Her eyes are flashing, and her rather ample bosom is trembling with rage.
“Katerina,” a loud, clear voice calls. “I’m so sorry.”
Alexei Romanov steps closer, one hand extended. “I must have bumped you. This is all my fault.”
I drop my hand into his, which seems much larger than it was the last time I saw him, only a year ago. “Oh.”
“Come with me, and I’ll see whether Mother can find you a suitable gown to wear until yours can be repaired.”
The woman who was about to destroy me forces a pained smile. “Your Majesty, what a delight to see you. You know this girl?”
“She’s an old family friend.” His smile’s genuine.
As if I’m seeing him for the first time, I stare. His shoulders are broad. His eyes are sky blue. His brow’s wide and clear, and his jaw’s square and decisive. His hand tightens around mine.
“Let’s go,” he whispers. “Before more guests arrive and Mother starts shoving me in front of all of them.” He tucks my arm inside of his elbow and begins expertly shifting us through the crowd, acknowledging everyone, but stopping to talk with none of them.
I glance over my shoulder, and notice that my dad’s standing beside my brother, both of them scowling at me angrily. They can’t do much about the czar’s son whisking me away, though.
Alexei’s like a trump card.
He’s young, handsome, polite, and chivalrous, judging by the way he hauls me all the way upstairs and finds a maid to locate one of his sisters’ gowns.
“I can’t possibly borrow one of their gowns,” I say. “My father would—”
“No sister of mine would ever even notice,” he says. “Trust me. They have enough gowns between them to clothe all of Saint Petersburg. It’s practically a crime.” His eyes are dancing.
A crime. I can’t help thinking of the true crime—marrying your daughter off to pay your own debts. I wonder whether this is what happened to my mother.
“You were always so happy—bubbly, really,” Alexei says. “Is everything alright?” His eyes study mine. “You look. . .morose.”
“I’m fine.” I can’t quite make the words sound sincere, but I did manage to say them.
“You know, Tatiana sounds just like that when she’s lying.” He’s narrowed his eyes. “You may as well tell me. I won’t stop prying until I discover the truth.”
“Did you happen to notice my father earlier?” I ask.
He frowns. “You were moving toward him—with Boris, were you not?”
Alexei and my brother don’t get along. That I recall. “They brought me here—my very first ball at the royal palace—for a reason.”
Alexei’s frown deepens. “Don’t tell me.”
“The man my father was standing next to. . .”
“With the grey hair?” Alexei arches one eyebrow. “No. It’s not possible.”
“We’re supposed to finalize our ‘engagement’ tonight, only I just found out.”
Alexei groans. “I’d heard that some families—you must refuse.”
“Really,” I say. “I do appreciate your help, but there’s not much you can do.” I pull the sash around my dress, wrapping it around twice, spreading the fabric out, and tying a large bow. “Just like this rip in my dress—I’ll cover up what I can, and I’ll figure out how to deal with the rest.”
As if summoned by my statement, the lady’s maid returns, her arms laden down with heavy dresses. “I’ve located three gowns none of them will ever miss.” She eyes me. “I think at least one of them will work.”
“You go change,” Alexei says. “I have an idea for the rest.”
I try to argue, but between him and the maid, I’m bundled off to the back room before I can compose a decent explanation as to how I’ll handle things. Alexei disappears immediately, and then I’m half-undressed by the maid with lightning fingers two minutes later.
“This one, I think.” The maid holds out a stunning, sky blue gown, embroidered with silver thread. “Your coloring is so similar to Miss Tatiana, and this one was made for her. She hates birds, or she’d probably be wearing it now.”
“I can’t possibly take her gown.” I brush my fingers across the rip in mine. “If you could just sew up this section—”
“It’ll only tear again,” the maid says. “The fabric’s too sheer to be sewn in that way. The only hope for that is a patch.”
“But this gown—”
“Did I mention that Miss Tatiana has also gained a bit of weight.” The maid’s lip curls. “Trust me. She won’t be missing this one—it no longer fits her properly.”
I finally allow her to button and tie me into the gorgeous dress. A few moments later, I’m marching back out into the hall, ready to take on my father with renewed vigor. Surely, once I tell him that I’m not ready for marriage, Lord Engelhardt will agree to wait. Or maybe he’ll move on to someone else who is ready now.
But when I reach the stairs, Alexei’s waiting for me. He’s beaming. “You know, we could do one another a favor.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“Mother has been after me to meet someone eligible.”
My heart races. “Oh?”
“I’m not keen on marrying—not for a while yet. I’m far too young.”
“I feel the same way,” I rush to say.
“Perfect.” He beams at me. “What father would force his daughter to marry an old man when the future czar of Russia is courting her?” He shrugs.
“And then what?” I ask. “I’m fine to wait as long as you’d like.” I’m younger than he is. Even waiting ten years would be fine, if that’s what he wanted.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to pretend for more than a season,” he says. “Or however long it takes for that old man to find someone new.” He winks. “So once he’s otherwise engaged, we’ll announce that we’re nothing more than friends, and we’ll both have been spared some family grief.”
My heart sinks. “Oh. Right.” I nod woodenly. Pretend. I force myself to do it now, too. It’s good practice, apparently. “Perfect.”
But from that moment forward, I make myself a different promise. It may be pretend to Alexei—a favor to an old family friend who shares a similar magical secret. But I plan to win him over this season, and by the end, he won’t want to call our courtship off.
Not ever.
3
Kristiana
Perspective’s a funny thing.
While I was growing up, a lot of my friends spent their free time shopping and watching television. I, meanwhile, was busy mucking stalls, cleaning tack, sweeping aisles and tack rooms and porches and the area behind the various cross ties. The bathrooms had to be cleaned twice a week, the trucks and trailers were always dirty, and there was always a horse that needed some kind of special care. Usually, there were several.
The work when you own a stable is never ending.
I didn’t think of myself as a pampered princess. I mean, sure, we had a really nice farm, and we also personally owned a lot of horses, but we worked really hard for what we had. Maintaining it, paying taxes, all of it was a chore, and sometimes it was an axe hanging over our heads. But when I met Adriana and Mirdza, when their mother came to work for our mom, well. Compared to them, we were living in complete luxury.
I try really hard not to look at other people and judge them. I really, truly do. It’s hard to know quite what someone’s history is, and without knowing about the ins and outs of their life, it’s unfair to make assumptions. But I know that Katerina was raised during the early 1900s, and I know her family was wealthy—Aleksandr has told me a little about his life then, and it was different than the world today, but not that different.
After hiding in her room for days, the pampered princess finally emerges, and the first thing she does is demand that we buy her a ticket to come with us to America.
“The thing is,” I say, “I think the seats on the plane are sold out.”
It’s a lie.
I have no idea whether there are tickets left, and even if a last-minute ticket costs a fortune, it won’t put a dent in Aleksandr’s money. I know this to be true.
But I don’t trust her.
She escaped from Leonid’s a little too easily, and she’s done nothing to connect with any of us. I wouldn’t put it past them to have worked out a plan that she should come with us, inveigle herself with our group, and then report back.
“There must be other flights,” Katerina says. “Can I call to place one? I have a phone.”
She’s clearly already watched too much television. Why can’t she be more like Aleksandr was at the beginning, before he became addicted to the internet?
“I need to ask Aleks what he thinks,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe he can convince someone at the airline to sell us their spare ticket.”
Her eyes light up, making her already stunning face even more beautiful. I suppress the female urge to dislike someone just because she’s prettier than me. It’s unkind, and I’ve always hated it. I try never to give in to those baser impulses, but some people make it particularly hard. “That would be amazing. I’ll just duck back in here and pack.” She nods slightly. “Just in case.”
Her acting all cute and grateful makes me feel horrible for doubting her. What woman in her right mind could possibly be on Leonid’s side?
I decide to do just what I said I would. Aleksandr knows her. I’ll tell him she wants to come and let him decide whether she’s trustworthy. But when I track down where he’s gone, it’s the stable. What on earth he’s doing there, I have no idea. The man doesn’t even like to ride. He loves when I ride him, but he almost never gets on a horse himself. He insists they’re too unreliable, which I find hilarious.
I’m trolling around the barn, distracted by three or four different horses who need my attention, when I finally see him way past the stable walls. He’s coming in from a run, which makes way more sense. Most of the staff isn’t sure why the black stallion’s allowed to roam free, but they all know it’s true by now. The exterior perimeter fence is somewhat helpful in assuaging their concerns, but not entirely. Only a handful of them know his secret, and so far, they’ve all done a good job of keeping it.
I think it helps that we’re in Russia. People here seem to do way better with things being weird.
I can’t help myself. I stare transfixed, even now, every time I see him out running. His coat glistens. His mane ripples beautifully like waves on the ocean. And his tail streams almost straight back as his hooves fly over the soft sod, throwing chunks of grass and dirt in all directions.
“Really?” I yell, as he draws close enough to hear me. He slows down and arrows toward me, and I can at least drop my voice. “I’m panicked about finding my brother and warning him before Leonid can, and you’re just. . .out for a run?”
He tosses his head, but even without words, I know.
“You’ll miss it.” I press one hand against the flat part of his head, between his eyes. “Russia. You love it here.”
I even get it. His run was a goodbye of sorts, at least for now.
When I’m away, I also yearn for Latvia. It’s home. I’m sure it feels the same to him, and moving our assets and shifting things out and away has been a relief for me, but not for Aleks. He’s finally back in his ancestral home, after being cursed and locked who knows where for a hundred plus years. Fleeing can’t be comfortable.
“We’ll come back,” I say. “I promise we will. The bad guys never win, not in the long run.”
He snorts, because he knows, after watching countless movies with me, that Hollywood isn’t the real world. Americans can’t seem to tolerate tragedy, which is fine for them, but the real world thrives on it. There aren’t ‘happy ending guarantees’ in life. Depressing, exhausting, and unlucky are far more common than shining, smiling, and joyful.
He drops his head against my shoulder and I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze. I let him lean against me—or rather, I lean against him—for one moment. Then another. But eventually, I have to tell him what’s going on.
