“My lady,” Paul whispers, “don’t be afraid.”
“You can’t tell me whether they’re alive or dead. Don’t try to comfort me with lies.”
“I wouldn’t.” And it’s true; Paul can be harsh, or awkward, or blunt, but he’s always honest with me. How could I ever have thought he had deceived us?
I try to smile for him, though I know the expression must look as wrong as it feels. “If you aren’t lying, then how can you tell me not to be afraid?”
“I only meant that you are safe, my lady. Once you are warm and rested, tomorrow morning we can set out for the royal train.”
My hopes rise. “The others will be there?”
“No, my lady. It is believed that troops loyal to Grand Duke Sergei are just outside St. Petersburg. The tsar and tsarevich have gone forward to establish an encampment in preparation for battle. I am to see you to the train so that you can be conveyed in safety to Moscow, which remains loyal.”
If my father and Peter survived, they, too, will go to the encampment. By now I know it is Tsar Alexander’s belief that his youngest child should learn to be a soldier; he’ll insist that Peter be near the battle, as brutal as that is. My father would never leave Peter alone there. He would insist on being at Peter’s side to comfort the little boy, even though it would mean risking his life again. “No. I won’t go to Moscow.” The only reason I ever had to go there was to look for Azarenko, but he’s going to be in the fighting too, isn’t he? “You must take me to the encampment.”
“My lady, I have orders.”
“I can give you orders too, can’t I? You have to take me there. I can’t go to Moscow.”
“You must.” Paul’s voice takes on more urgency, and unconsciously he shifts closer to me, trying to make me see it as he does. “Otherwise the danger is too great.”
“If my father dies, I want to die too.”
“Don’t say that. You must think of your duty. At least one member of the next generation of the House of Romanov must remain safe.”
“I’ll go to the encampment with or without you.” All I have to do is follow the railroad tracks back toward St. Petersburg, right? Of course it can’t be that simple, but I refuse to admit it. I have to find out whether I still have any hope of going home, or I have to die trying.
Paul says, “You must stay alive, my lady.”
“Why?” I clutch at the neck of his shirt. “Why, when I’m trapped in a life that’s not my own?”
He can’t answer me. He only stares.
My hand begins to shake, as does my voice. “I’ve failed everyone. I failed my father. My mother, my sister, Theo, you—everyone. I failed at everything. I won’t be trapped here. I won’t marry a man I don’t even know. But I don’t see any other way out. If this is all that’s left, if this is the only life left to me—I don’t want it.”
For a few moments Paul can’t reply. We lie there, face to face, my hand against his chest, our feet touching. This is the closest we will ever be. We will never have a chance to be truly alone together again.
Paul says, “If not for yourself, my lady, stay alive for me.”
Our eyes meet.
His next words are a whisper. “I have no need for a world without you in it.”
I don’t know if what I feel is for this dimension’s Paul, for my own, or for both of them. I can’t tell the difference any longer, and in the moment, I don’t care.
My fingers trail up his throat to the edge of his jawline, along the line of his close-cropped beard, to find the corner of his mouth. His lips part; his breath catches.
“Paul,” I murmur, “call me by my name.”
“You know I cannot.”
“Just once. Just once I want to hear you say my name.”
Paul brings his face close to mine, so close we are nearly touching. “Marguerite.”
And we are lost.
I’m the one who breaks the last rule, the final taboo—the one who kisses him. But then he surrenders. He holds nothing back. We tangle together, kissing desperately, clutching at the few clothes we still wear, hardly able to breathe or think or do anything other than lose ourselves in each other.
When I tug at the hem of his shirt, he lifts it up to help me toss it away. Then I shrug the straps of my camisole away from my shoulders; I’ve never thought of my skinny body as beautiful, not until I’ve seen Paul’s eyes darken at the sight of me, not until he lowers himself over me to kiss me more passionately and hungrily than before.
“Marguerite,” Paul pants against my shoulder. “We must not—we must not—”
“We must.” I arch my body against his, an invitation no man could ever mistake. He kisses me again, our mouths open, and the way we move draws us even closer.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Paul, yes, please—”
His mind is fighting it even as his body responds. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to—oh. Oh.”
My fingers dig into his shoulders, and I bite my lower lip. Yet I move my body to meet his, to welcome him completely.
Paul buries his face in the curve of my neck. His entire body shakes with the effort to go slow. He gasps, “You’re—are you—”
I kiss his forehead. My hands trace the length of his back, the bend of his hips, reveling in the firmness of muscle and bone. Instead of answering him with words, I move against him. He groans, rakes his teeth along my throat and follows my lead.