Her brain froze, not so much from fear as from simple confusion. He couldn’t possibly get away with it, valuable up-timer or not, touched by God or not. Not in Russia, not even in Germany. Raping Anya or any of the servant girls, even killing one of them, he could get away with. But a princess of Russia? Even Sheremetev, perhaps especially Sheremetev, would have him drawn and quartered for the offense against all the nobility of Russia.
Then he grabbed her arm and all doubt fled. “Stupid down-timer bitch. You think there’s any real difference between you and any of the other whores in Russia? You’re all down-timers, whatever silly-ass titles you give yourselves.” With his other hand he ripped open her dressing gown. “Time for you to learn your place, Princess, after what your guardsmen did to me when I first got here.”
Now he had a hand on her breast and she tried to shove him away. For just a split second it seemed like she had succeeded, at least in part. His hand left her breast and there was space between their bodies.
Then his fist hit the side of her face. She hadn’t seen it coming and it didn’t exactly hurt, not yet, though it would later. For now it simply stunned her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t react when that same hand reached down and grabbed her down there.
* * *
Anya had expected Cass to come after her too, but she had been ignored as he went after the princess. Anya was a small woman, but she grabbed Cass’ arm and got flung across the room for her trouble. Cass Lowry was a physically strong man, whatever else might be said about him. Anya had no more faith in the guards outside the door than Natasha did. Instead she went for the pistol in Natasha’s bed stand.
Even with a willingness to sacrifice some serfs to the project, Russia didn’t have nearly enough fulminate of mercury to supply an army and the newer, safer primer that had been developed later had only reached Russia after it had reached the USE. So production was still quite limited. Limited, that is, when you’re talking about providing percussion caps for an army. Not the least bit limited when it came to providing caps for a few hundred of the privileged of Russia. The Dacha had plenty of guns. Natasha’s had been made by the czar’s own gunsmith. It was a .36 caliber cap-and-ball revolver. By the time Anya had it in her hands, Cass Lowry had Natasha on her bed, completely exposed and was pulling his pants down.
Anya pointed and shot. And missed at less than six feet. She was a good shot and practiced twice a week at the Dacha’s firing range. But she was now learning how easy it was for even a marksman to miss a target in a real fight.
For a moment she just stared as Cass Lowry turned and looked at her, an expression of surprise on his face.
There were still five rounds left in the revolver. She aimed again, more carefully, taking that extra split-second to steady herself. At the chest, the best target.
She fired. Lowry staggered, as he tried to rise. Anya cocked the hammer, bringing another chamber in line. Fired. Lowry fell back on his buttocks, then leaned to one side, resting on his hip.
Blood was spreading across his chest. His eyes were open but no longer staring at her. They were staring at the nearby dresser. Or possibly at nothing at all, any longer.
Three shots left. Anya stepped forward two paces, brought the muzzle within six inches of Lowry’s skull, cocked, and fired again. Blood, bone and brains splattered the wall behind him.
Two shots left. Amazingly, the man was not down; still lying on his hip, propped up on an elbow. His eyes were still wide open. Yet he had to be dead!
She cocked and aimed again.
Then the guards came rushing in. Sheremetev’s men looked at Anya holding the gun, Cass on the floor, and began bringing up their own guns. Big and clumsy old-fashioned snaphaunce muskets, though. Their employer was something of a miser.
Anya turned and fired at the nearest of the two men. She was getting better at this. He went down with a bullet in his chest. She turned to the other guard and fired her last shot. He went down too, although she had missed her actual target. She’d been aiming for his chest also but the shot had been hurried and struck him in the throat instead.
No matter, he was dead or dying. She glanced back at Lowry. The American had finally collapsed on the floor and was now obviously dead—even though his eyes were still open.
Anya heard a little choking sound and turned to Natasha, who was looking around in shock. Anya didn’t blame her. It had all happened so fast.
* * *
Father Kiril jumped at the sound of the first shot, then rushed to Princess Natalia’s private wing. He was joined on the way by the princess’ aunt Sofia.
“I knew it would happen,” Sofia gasped. “That, that . . . cretin!”