The Unforgiven:

NICHOLAS

By

Tracy L. Ranson

 

 

© copyright October 2006, Tracy L. Ranson

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright October 2006

ISBN 1-58608-962-5

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

 

 

 

Chapter One

Russia 1762

Nicholas’ dark, hooded eyes surveyed the room as he listened to the inane chatter floating around him. Their words meant nothing to him, his mind silently hunting through his own aristocratic kind, their blood like music to his body. He could hear their deepest, darkest secrets, nothing hidden from his vampiric mind.

“Russian appeals to my appetite,” Drake said mentally beside him as they strode through the hall of Tsarskoe Selo Palace, the summer residence of Emperor Peter and Empress Catherine.

“Aye, as it does mine,” he answered, his gaze traveling to the gold gilding on the walls and especially the ceiling, where frescos had been delicately hand painted. A smile curled his lips. For all the supposed brilliant “cunning,” these humans had no idea predators hunted among them.

Sounds of music floated throughout the halls, filling the air with their song. Nicholas listened, focusing his full attention on the music and enjoying the skill of the musicians who played the waltzes. He had once tried to play the violin himself, a hundred years before, but found he had no tone or talent for it. Since then, he had always enjoyed the talent of others.

“Ah, my good Lord Wetherington,” Serge Novanovitch called from across the room.

Nicholas turned sharply to see the fat man waddling toward him, the buttons of his waistcoat straining. “Aye, ‘tis me.” He executed a mock bow with Drake doing the same. “May I introduce you to my traveling companion, Drake Samuelsson?”

Serge’s lecherous gaze traveled up and down Drake’s form, encouraging a myriad of vile, disgusting thoughts thrumming through the older Russian's head. “A pleasure,” he sighed softly, almost like a woman would. “What brings you to our chilly corner of the world?”

“Adventure.” Drake smiled back, returning the man’s sentiment.

Nicholas felt the hatred grow in Drake. The only reason he was acting as though he might consider bedding down for the night with Serge was as a potential meal, nothing more. “Much thanks for sending the invitation to the Empress’ birthday celebration,” he said, breaking the awkward silence between them. “London is so boring since the season is over, so this is a welcome diversion.”

“Good, good,” Serge said, gesturing toward the middle of the room where a group of Russian aristocrats waited. “Come, there are several people you simply must meet before the Empress arrives.”

Nicholas had thought of joining him with the others, but he let Drake lead the way, staring at the sea of powdered heads. He had kept his hair its normal jet color, refusing to give in to the style of the day. Mortals seemed to always hang onto one silly custom or another as long it was “fashionable.” He smirked. If they only knew what he was.

* * * *

Tatiana admired her reflection in the mirror, touching the angled planes of her face. Her porcelain skin and luminous eyes, she had inherited from her deceased mother, as well as the pale, silvery-blond hair. Sometimes she wished she could have been more like her mother, meek and mild, willing to do a man’s bidding. Instead, she’d received the stubbornness of her father, ready to take on any challenge without remorse, catching her into a net of intrigue that should involve no woman.

“Come help me put my necklace on, Tatiana,” ordered Empress Catherine from behind the curtain. She jumped. The Empress’ voice was so commanding and strong, a trait she wished she could display. In her current guise as a simpleton, she could not.

Quickly, she left the small dressing table and hurried behind the screen where several ladies-in-waiting tied Catherine’s lacings and fastenings. “Would you not like to wait, Your Majesty? Perhaps after the ladies are finished?”

“Perhaps,” Catherine sighed, waiting for the last thread to be tied. “You know, Tatiana, that you are a very intelligent woman.”

“Nyet, Your Majesty. I am the simple daughter of one of your generals, nothing more.” She hung her head, mostly for show for the ladies-in-waiting. “I am yours completely to command.”

The Empress waved her hand, and the ladies bowed, their jobs finished. “Be gone. I wish to address this girl in private.”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” they cried in unison, leaving the chamber amid the swish of the finest silk and satin.

Once the door closed, the Empress gestured for her to come closer. She obeyed and dropped to her knees at the Empress’ feet, discarding the simpleton guise, keeping close to the Empress’ ear so that if anyone was listening, they would hear nothing. “I have your letter from General Federov.” Tatiana reached into the pocket of her gown and produced the letter. “He asked me to tell you that he is eagerly awaiting your response.”

The Empress ripped it from her hands and tore open the letter, the bits of wax flying everywhere. Tatiana knelt patiently as the Empress’ eyes swept back and forth across the page, the expression on her face lightening.

Tatiana folded her hands in her lap, strengthening her patriotic resolve. She knew that this was important and that the Emperor needed to be dethroned. He was nothing more than a childish man, a puppet, preferring to play with toys than tending to the needs of the government. She had witnessed his many shows of childishness, knowing that he was not entirely right in the head. Catherine, on the other hand, was the true ruler of Russia, the only one with the country’s best interests at heart. Time seemed to have erased her past as Princess Sophie Auguste Frederike von Anhalt-Zerbst, of the forgotten little duchy of Stettin. Gone were her Lutheran ideas, replaced by the Russian Orthodox faith. She knew the Russian people better than they knew themselves, sparing no effort to ingratiate herself with them. Peter had never bothered to know or understand his fellow Russians. When the Empress had approached her about ferrying messages back and forth between the monarch and her armies, she had accepted the duty without question. It was right for Russia’s future.

The Empress held the letter against her white-satin brocaded breasts, a delicate sigh escaping from her scarlet-clad lips. “You will leave tomorrow for St. Petersburg and meet General Federov at the Black Horse Tavern near the Peterhof. You will give him my reply there. Once your task is completed, you will spend the night at your country home and change back into your normal attire. Return to me once that is done. Am I understood?” Tatiana nodded as she rose to her feet and picked up the heavy necklace from its bed of velvet, the large rubies and pearls glimmering in the light. Placing the heavy jewelry around the royal neck, clasping it tightly in the back, her fingers danced over the pearls. Perhaps one day she would own fine jewelry such as this.

“Many thanks,” the Empress remarked as she turned and caught the edge of the message on fire from a nearby candle, laying it down on a silver platter and watching it burn.

“What time will I be leaving?”

“At dawn,” the Empress answered, pushing the paper around so that the last of the flame ate the remnants it. “You will carry the message verbally, so that if anyone stops you, there will be no incriminating evidence.” She sighed wearily. “‘Tis a nasty business that we women are a part of,” she confessed as the flame flickered a bit more before going out, the ashes resting in a dull-gray heap. “We can trust no one, nor allow anyone to get close to us while we try to right the current wrongs.” The Empress looked up, her pale eyes conveying the seriousness of the situation. “Trust no one, Tatiana, not even your own father, who I fear is a part of Peter’s rebellion.”

“Aye, he is part of it, Your Majesty,” Tatiana confessed, the tears slipping from her eyes.

“Does he question you about my court?”

“He beleaguers me for information in letters, but I claim I have nothing to give him.” Her head lowered as her heart broke nearly in half. “Please promise me that once you have the throne, you will not punish him too harshly?”

The Empress’ warm hand slipped under her chin, lifting her face up. “Hush, my dear, there is no use in thinking of that now,” she murmured, dabbing at Tatiana’s eyes with her lace handkerchief. “What I will promise is that I will take into consideration your undying loyalty to me in this dire time.” She set the lace aside. “Rise, my dear, for there is a celebration downstairs in honor of my birthday.” She urged Tatiana to her feet. “There is nothing to cry about.” The Empress took one last look at herself in the mirror, turning sideways. “Can you tell that I am with child again?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Tatiana murmured, wiping the last of her tears away, her heart thumping hard in her chest. She had just given her father over to the Empress, who she was sure would execute him for treason. How could she be happy now?

“Good,” the Empress replied in a staid voice, smoothing the silken folds of her gown down. “I do not wish to announce that fact at the moment, for there are many at court who know the Emperor rarely spends any time in my bed. Not that I wish him to, of course, while he dandles with that obscene pig, Countess Vorontsòva.”

“But no one....”

The Empress’ spine stiffened, her jaw tightly set. “There are many who would sell their very soul if they could use this information against me, including my ‘husband’.” She spat out that word with utter contempt and turned to Tatiana. “Do you not agree?” She tilted her head. The Empress’ gentle lips spread into a wide smile. “I am glad someone is on my side in this fight.”

“Much thanks, Your Majesty, for all that you have done for me,” she murmured as the Empress took her hand. “I will never forget this.”

“Nor will I.”