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His Cavalry Lady
Joanna Maitland
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesSecrets, disguise and passion! Alex instantly fell for Dominic Aikenhead, Duke of Calder, knowing that he would never notice her – because, to him, she was Captain Alexei Alexandrov, a young man and a brave hussar! Alex longed to be with her English Duke just once, as the passionate woman she truly was.To be swept off her feet, wearing the finest of gowns, would be a dream come true. But there was danger in such thoughts. What if Dominic ever found out the truth?The Aikenhead Honours Three gentlemen spies: bound by duty, undone by women!
The Aikenhead HonoursThree gentlemen spies: bound by duty,undone by women!
Introducing three of England’s
most eligible bachelors:
Dominic, Leo and Jack
code-named Ace, King, Knave
Together they are
The Aikenhead Honours A government-sponsored spying ring, they risk their lives, and hearts, to keep Regency England safe!
Follow these three brothers on a dazzling
journey through Europe and beyond as they
serve their country and meet their brides, in
often very surprising circumstances!
Meet the ‘Ace’, Dominic Aikenhead,
Duke of Calder, in
HIS CAVALRY LADY
Meet the ‘King’ and renowned rake,
Lord Leo Aikenhead, in
HIS RELUCTANT MISTRESS
Meet the ‘Knave’ and incorrigible playboy,
Lord Jack Aikenhead, in
HIS FORBIDDEN LIAISON
Joanna Maitland was born and educated in Scotland, though she has spent most of her adult life in England or abroad. She has been a systems analyst, an accountant, a civil servant, and director of a charity. Now that her two children have left home, she and her husband have moved from Hampshire to the Welsh Marches, where she is revelling in the more rugged country and the wealth of medieval locations. When she is not writing, or climbing through ruined castles, she devotes her time to trying to tame her house and garden, both of which are determined to resist any suggestion of order. Readers are invited to visit Joanna’s website at www.joannamaitland.com
Recent novels by the same author:
A POOR RELATION
A PENNILESS PROSPECT
MARRYING THE MAJOR
RAKE’S REWARD
MY LADY ANGEL
AN UNCOMMON ABIGAIL
(in A Regency Invitation anthology) BRIDE OF THE SOLWAY
HIS CAVALRY LADY
Joanna Maitland
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
HIS CAVALRY LADY
This book is dedicated to my editor, Jo Carr.
Prologue
St Petersburg, 1812
The third door led into yet another magnificent room. Empty, just as the previous ones had been. There was nothing for it but to go on.
Adopting a brave posture—there could be no enemy here, could there?—the young cavalry trooper strode across to the door on the far side. There he hesitated, for just a second or two. Then, with a tiny shake of the head, as if telling himself to face his demons, he put his hand to the latch and opened it.
‘Ah, Trooper Borisov. At last.’ The speaker was a portly gentleman dressed in court uniform. He was smiling, but he did not bow or offer any other salute. ‘I am Prince Volkonsky, Court Minister to his Imperial Majesty.’
The trooper came sharply to attention. ‘Sir. I…’ He faltered. His unease had been increasing with every one of those empty antechambers.
The Minister’s smile broadened. ‘His Majesty is waiting to meet you, young man. He has heard much of your exploits. And of your exemplary courage. Would that we had ten thousand more like you. We would have rid the world of the French scourge long ago.’
Borisov could feel his face reddening. He cursed silently. Why did he always have to react so? Only girls blushed. Not battle-hardened cavalrymen.
The Minister was waiting for an answer.
‘Thank you, sir. You are most generous. But there are many brave men in the ranks of his Majesty’s army and—’
‘Indeed there are. But few as young as you, Borisov, or with such a record.’
Borisov said nothing more. Any response would sound like bragging.
‘Now, if you will take a seat, my boy, I will tell his Majesty that you have arrived. He is occupied at present, but I am sure you will be admitted soon.’ Without giving Borisov any time to respond, the Minister tapped gently on the further door and entered the room beyond, closing the door softly behind him.
Tsar Alexander himself is behind that door. The thought shivered through Borisov’s mind. The Tsar himself, the Little Father. And I am to meet him. This very day. The Tsar himself.
Borisov began to pace. He needed to be moving. As just before a battle, he could not be still. For this meeting was as momentous as any battle he had fought.
It was only as the connecting door reopened that Borisov began to wonder what he should say to the Tsar. What if he asked—?
‘Trooper Borisov, his Majesty will receive you now.’
Borisov swallowed hard, forced his body into his best military posture and strode through that terrifying door.
It was a huge room, hung with paintings and mirrors, but almost empty of furniture. In the far corner, under the tall windows, stood an ornate gilded desk with a single chair behind it. A distant part of Borisov’s mind registered that visitors to this room were not permitted to sit.
The figure behind the desk rose and came round into the centre of the room. Borisov remained rooted to the spot by the door. He knew, without looking, that it had been closed behind him. He was alone. With the Emperor himself.
‘Borisov. Come forward. Let me look at you in the light.’
Borisov bowed and obeyed.
The Tsar was the taller of the two. Unlike Borisov, he had a fine set of side-whiskers. He stood erect and imposing in his military uniform, looking his visitor over with bright, intelligent eyes. Assessing eyes.
He will spot where my jacket was mended for that sabre cut, Borisov thought suddenly, wishing he had been able to afford a new one.
‘We have heard much about your courageous exploits during the wars. How many times did you take part in those cavalry charges? Five?’
Borisov’s throat was too dry to speak. He nodded, blushing yet again.
‘Your commanders report that you are totally fearless, throwing yourself into every skirmish. Even when it is not your squadron that is charged with the attack.’ The Tsar smiled down at him, encouragingly.
Borisov swallowed. ‘That was a…a mistake, your Majesty,’ he croaked.
The Emperor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘I… It was my first battle, your Majesty. No one had told me that charges were by squadron. When I returned from the first one, I just… I assumed that I was to continue as before.’
‘I see. But you stopped eventually?’
‘Yes, your Majesty. The sergeant-major told me to remain with my own squadron and to charge only with them.’
The Emperor’s eyes were dancing with good humour. ‘But you continued to throw yourself into every battle? And you saved the life of an officer at Borodino.’
Borisov took a deep breath. ‘He was wounded, your Majesty. I merely chased off the enemy. They ran as soon as they saw an unwounded trooper bearing down on them with a lance.’
‘And you gave him your horse.’
‘I…yes, I did.’ Borisov did not add that, by the time the horse was eventually recovered, all the kit it carried had been stolen. And that, as a result, Borisov himself had almost frozen to death for want of a greatcoat.
‘Saving an officer’s life is a meritorious act, Borisov. That is why you have been summoned here to receive the Cross of St George. And…’ the Tsar turned back to his desk and picked up a paper ‘…and for another reason.’
Borisov swayed a little on his feet. Please, no!
‘I have here a plea from a distraught father, Count Ivan Kuralkin, who begs for help to locate his beloved child. This child ran away from home to join the cavalry and has been missing now for more than two years, serving under an assumed name. The father begs that the child, the comfort of his old age, will be found and returned to him. Do you think I should grant his request, Borisov?’ He dropped the paper back on the desk.
The young man gulped, realising that his expression must betray his panic.
‘You have no view on this, Borisov?’ The Tsar’s keen eyes were on him.
‘I would not presume, your Majesty.’
The Tsar nodded to himself, as if acknowledging a good answer, then turned and walked to the long windows overlooking the vast garden of the palace. For several minutes, he stood, apparently contemplating the plants. Then, abruptly, he spun on his heel and said, in a voice so soft that it barely carried to where the trooper stood, ‘I have been told that you are a woman, Borisov. Tell me the truth. Is it so?’
Borisov stood as if transfixed. His mouth worked but no sound came out.
The Tsar strode across the room until the two were barely a pace apart. He did not look angry or forbidding. He looked merely intrigued. And he was waiting for an answer.
It was not possible to lie to the Tsar. Besides, it was clear that he already knew. The young man managed just a thread of a voice. ‘It is true, your Majesty.’ He waited for the blow to fall.
The Tsar smiled broadly and clapped the trooper on the shoulder. ‘I should never have believed that a woman could do all that you have done. Such courage and such dedication. You are a shining example to the army. Alexandra Ivanovna Kuralkina, I salute you.’ He fastened the cross to her uniform, kissed her formally on both cheeks and took a step back, pausing to assess the effect. Then he turned back to his desk and picked up the paper again. ‘And since you did not answer the question when I put it to you, I shall answer it for you now. You shall be returned to your family by the Tsar himself with all honour. Your exploits shall be fêted.’
No! Oh, no! The Emperor was going to send her back to her father and stepmother. She had fled one marriage to a man she had never seen. No doubt her stepmother would soon sell her to another. She would never be free again. Such a punishment was too much to bear. She threw herself at the Emperor’s feet. ‘Your Majesty, I beg you, from the bottom of my heart, please do not send me back to my father. I would rather have died for you on the battlefield than return there. Let me continue to serve you, to fight for you. The cavalry is all I desire in the world. I cannot serve you if you send me back to my father’s house.’
The Tsar looked down at the man-woman at his feet. He frowned slightly and turned away, leaving her crumpled on her knees on the intricately patterned wooden floor. It was no position for a cavalryman to be in, but she did not dare to move. She held her breath, watching him pace. Was there a chance he might change his mind?
‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly, waving her to her feet.
That was the last question she had expected. ‘Twenty-two, your Majesty.’
‘Indeed? You look no more than sixteen.’ He paused, clearly digesting that information. ‘Tell me, my child,’ he said at last, ‘what would you wish to do, if anything in the world were possible for you?’
‘I would wish to continue to serve you in a cavalry regiment, your Majesty.’
‘Any particular one?’
She hesitated. Did he mean…? ‘A Hussar regiment, your Majesty, if I had a choice.’ A vision flickered across her brain of herself in Hussar uniform, sabre drawn, taking part in a mighty charge. Oh, yes, a Hussar regiment.
‘As an officer?’ A small smile licked the corner of his mouth.
Her heart began to pound at the Tsar’s extraordinary suggestion. Only men with written proofs of their nobility could become officers. Under her assumed name, Borisov, and with no hope of demonstrating her noble status, her only choice had been to enlist as an ordinary trooper. Her military life so far had been wonderful, exhilarating. But to be an officer! She could do it. Of course she could. Like her father, she had been born to do it. ‘A commission in a Hussar regiment, your Majesty, would be like a…it would be the fulfilment of a dream I have always thought impossible.’ She looked shyly up at him, wondering whether any of this could be true. Was he really about to grant her fiercest desire?
He nodded, twice. ‘I shall commission you into the Mariupol Hussars.’
She gasped aloud. She could not help it. The Mariupol Hussars was a crack regiment. Noblemen fought tooth and nail for commissions in it.
‘But not, I think, as Borisov. Nor under your own name, Kuralkina, obviously. You shall take my name. You shall be Alexandrov. Alexei Ivanovich Alexandrov of the Mariupol Hussars.’
‘Oh, thank you, your Majesty,’ she breathed. She wanted to burst with happiness. The Little Father himself had granted her dearest wish. It was a miracle.
‘It is a fitting reward for saving the life of an officer on the battlefield. And since you will not be able to ask your father for the funds you will need, I myself shall supply you. Apply directly to me, through Prince Volkonsky. No one else is to know of this. You will continue to serve as a man.’
‘Your Majesty, I do not know how to thank you. I—’
‘There is one way to thank me, Alexandrov, and one way only. You have been given a new and honourable name. Let your conduct match it, on the battlefield and beyond. Let no stain of dishonour tarnish it so long as you bear it.’ He stared down into her eyes, searching for commitment.
