The sheer extravagance of the new dress makes me chuckle a little. The bodice is tight and the skirt flares out in petal-like shapes lined with… “Oh, for feck’s sake, whoisthis guy? This is ridiculous.” The petals of the dress are lined with green gemstones that I’m certain are emeralds and stiff silver threads bolstering the fragile material. The whole silly thing is held together with a hoopskirt.
I quickly do my makeup and hair and eye thedress. “Looks like I’m needing your help after all, Eloise.” She nods and hastens over to help me lift the gown. The thing must weigh as much as I do.
Édouard arrives just as she’s zipping up the abomination and I swear I can feel my spine compress, trying to hold me up.
It’s just for a couple of hours. I can handle that.
I’m led down a sweeping staircase and Édouard pretends he dinnae see me gripping the ivory banister for dear life as the heavy skirt thumps down behind me, step by step.
There’s a pair of guards, clad in black with blank expressions, standing at the bottom of the staircase. There’s another two stationed to the left, where a marble hallway is so vast that it stretches out farther than I can see. “How do ye find your way around? Some kind of GPS tracker?” I ask him, eyeing an ancient suit of armor. No swords, damn it.
“There are rooms that even I have not found,” he says, gliding along. “This castle has a rich history.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
C’mon ye pompous French feck, give me a clue here.
“Another time, Miss MacTavish. We have arrived.”
He sweeps his hand out, showing off a dininghall massive enough for three roaring fireplaces and a table that could seat fifty, loaded with food.
“There you are!” A man is striding down the length of the room, his arms joyfully outstretched like he’s my sweetheart, returning home from the war. “I have waited so long for this moment, my dear Catriona!”
Chapter Five
In which we meet the villain of our story. He’s kind of an asshole.
Catriona…
The man stops abruptly. “May I call you Catriona?”
There’s something vaguely familiar about him. He’s bald, medium height with a dark goatee, but I canna place him.
“It is my name. Ye certainly know how to dress for dinner, I see.”
He smooths his hand down his kaftan. “Do you like it? I had it created in the 16th century style of Russian formal wear.”
It’s lavish, the knee-length kaftan threaded through with gold and an impressive amount of embellishment, and a big red sash. He’s paired this with breeches and highly polished boots.
“Ye definitely have that whole Cossack vibe going on,” I offer.
“Thank you,” he beams. “Please. Join me fordinner.”
“We should complete the introductions, aye? And you are?”
He pleasantly ignores my question, seating me across from him at the table. “I thought we should have a recreation of one of my favorite meals from my last trip to Moscow.” He chuckles. “I stole the chef away from the restaurant, it was that good.”
“Is he… in the dungeon, then?” I ask. I wouldn’t put it past this one.
He smiles at me indulgently, like I’m the cutest wee thing in the world.
Two black-clad servers silently place the first course on the table, three kinds of caviar with blini and sour cream. “Do try theKolikofcaviar,” he says, gesturing to the tiny dish of plump, glistening eggs. “It’s the finest beluga caviar in the world.”
I’ve eaten many Russian meals with our Bratva allies, the Turgenevs and the Morozovs, and he’s right. The little bite bursts on my tongue with a wonderfully salty, sea tang.
“This is delicious,” I say. “I would like an explanation of-”
“Ah, and here’s theshashlik,” he interrupts, rubbing his hands. “Pork, beef, and then, the lamb, which I believe is your favorite?”
