Free Tempting Fate by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

The mangled bodies of two cocks had been flung against the wall and were now crumpled bundles of feathers in the straw. It was the only evidence of waste that Ragoczy had seen on this estate.
    Near the far door, there was a small figure half-covered in straw. At the sound of Ragoczy’s approaching footsteps the child screamed and was echoed by the nervous whinny of the tethered chestnut outside.
    Ragoczy stopped. “No, no, child,” he said soothingly, first in Russian, then in Polish. He waited, listening, until the shriek died away. “I will not harm you, child. I won’t hurt you.” He took two cautious steps forward. He could see more clearly now. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
    Quite abruptly the child fell silent. A face poked out of the straw and large eyes as brown as Dutch chocolates grew huge with terror. The child whimpered once, then trembling, attempted to burrow into the straw.
    This pathetic gesture filled Ragoczy with sorrow. He stood still as he spoke to the youngster. “I have said I will not hurt you.” He repeated his words in Polish, then went back to Russian. “I am alone. I will not hurt you.” He could not say that he was unarmed because there was a knife tucked into the top of his boot and a pistol in his sleeve.
    The child scrambled in the straw, huddling closer to the wall of the chicken coop.
    “Be still, child,” Ragoczy murmured, and in two swift, silent strides was beside the cringing figure. He went down on one knee. “I will not harm you. You are safe with me. Believe this.” Then, very deliberately, very shyly, he put his hand on the child’s back.
    At this the child stopped moving, almost stopped breathing.
    “I will not harm you,” Ragoczy said again, making no further movement. Under his long, small fingers he could feel the child’s breath in shallow panting. He realized with some surprise that the child was wearing an ill-fitting dress of ornate brocades. They remained thus—Ragoczy with his hand resting lightly on the child’s back, the child half-hidden in the straw—for more than a quarter of an hour. Then the child turned a filthy, blotched face up to Ragoczy.
    “Who are you?” she asked in excellent, aristocratic Russian.
    “Franchot Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain,” he answered at once.
    “You’re not with them?” Her voice quavered and she dragged an embroidered cuff over her upper lip.
    “No.”
    “Are they still here?”
    He shook his head. “They’ve been gone since before sunset.”
    “Oh.” She got unsteadily to her knees. “Is anyone left?”
    Regretfully he told her the truth. “I didn’t see anyone: I don’t think so.”
    This information made very little impression on the girl. She shook her head, frowning. “I ran. Everyone did.” She struggled to her feet, tugging at the brocade dress that did not fit her. It was of fine quality, a light shade of teal, Ragoczy judged, though in this gloom even he could not be sure. There was embroidery on the sleeves, the bodice, and the hem, and the waist and neck were sewn with patterns of seed pearls. It had been made for a girl of twelve or thirteen; the child who wore it was no more than seven. Her feet were bare and badly scraped. There was one jeweled comb in her tangled blonde hair. She stared at the far wall. “I don’t remember…”
    “It’s not important now,” Ragoczy said, knowing how many times great shocks were lost to the mind. “What’s your name?”
    She looked up at him as if she did not understand the question. “Laisha Vlassevna?”
    He heard the uncertainty in her voice. “Is that all?”
    She considered a moment, then nodded. “Laisha Vlassevna.”
    No last name. It would make finding her family—if any of them remained—quite difficult. He could not leave her here, and if what he had seen was any indication, there were few havens here on the edge of Poland. “Where do you come from, Laisha Vlassevna?”
    “Here?” She trembled again.
    He decided not