Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  Kitty was exhausted. They’d been on the road for almost seven hours, and they had stopped now only because the animals needed rest. In the short break before they set off again, Kitty dropped to the ground, leaned against an unused grain storage bin, and looked out at the winter landscape with unseeing eyes.

  After talking briefly with his two bodyguards, Apollo came into the barn, discarding the tunic of his Red Army uniform. Rummaging through his saddlebags, he slipped into the black beshmet and tight-fitting, leather-seamed cherkesska he preferred, enveloping himself once more in the shaggy black burkha that served as cloak, blanket, and bedroll.

  He had a violent pounding headache from the heavy drinking of the previous night and even seen through taut nerves and blood-veined eyes Kitty was looking much too desirable. Golden curls, tinseled with moisture, peeked from beneath her fur hat; her nose and cheeks were prettily tinged with pink, her long-lashed eyes dark in the dimness of the barn. The immediate arousal he experienced annoyed him.

  Exhausted, bleakly resentful, and lamentably sober, he sank to his haunches near Kitty and addressed her gruffly. “Are you warm enough?” While the sentiment was one of concern, the voice was cool almost to the point of discourtesy.

  Kitty, responding to the tone, disregarded the fact she was thoroughly chilled and said, “Yes, fine.”

  A floor-length sable should keep one warm, Apollo thought caustically, taking in the sumptuous, long-haired, saffron fur engulfing Kitty. Where did the general steal that? he wondered. “Good,” he replied brusquely, and, the social niceties briskly concluded went on to explain in a formal tone how he happened to appear in Stavropol.

  “I promised Peotr I’d see you safely to Novorossiisk.”

  “Peotr! Is he …?” Kitty’s white teeth unconsciously bit into her soft, crimson upper lip, and her eyes, dark-lashed absinthe, seemed to fill her face.

  “He’s fine,” Apollo quickly interjected. “Not wounded, the last I saw him. And … fine,” he finished lamely, no glib excuses ready on his tongue. It had been a long night.

  “Where is he, then?”

  “Well …” Apollo’s mind was racing as fast as his excruciating headache would allow. “The last I saw him was at Ekaterinodar. We separated there, both starting east. One of us would get through, we figured.” Peotr was heading east, although it was to Baku, not Aladino. “Aladino was practically on my way.” Merde, he hated to lie, but none of that was exactly a lie.

  “Do you think Peotr was hurt or captured?” Kitty asked anxiously.

  “No,” he answered a little too fast.

  “Oh,” was all Kitty said, but her overquiet reponse indicated full understanding. More misplaced anxiety for the same indifferent husband, she ruefully acknowledged. And Peotr may not be quite as callous as it appeared; after all, he had left instructions for her to leave at the first sign of trouble. It was her own fault she hadn’t followed his suggestion. “We’re on our way to Novorossiisk, then?” she inquired into the uncomfortable silence.

  Apollo paused briefly before answering. “That’s what I promised Peotr.” His voice was flat, colorless.

  So. He’d come only out of duty to an old friend, Kitty unhappily reflected. He had risked his life to save her—but for Peotr. She had hoped in some ridiculous, illogical way that he cared for her—that wanting to find and save her had been his motive. That silliness could now be summarily dismissed. It had all been simply another of Apollo’s dangerous games, played out for its own pleasure. Winning was the prize; not her. Suddenly, for a moment, her will to live waned to a whisper. Her last desperate illusion—the talisman that had kept her dream alive, had sustained her through long, dreadful nights—lay in shattered fragments at her feet.

  She really must try to control this terrible inclination to fantasize, she decided, very near tears. All that romanticism should have been left behind with childish games and what by now must be the ruins of Aladino.

  As Apollo balanced before her on his powerful legs—all force and lean masculinity, his hair, as usual, a ruffled, wild mane, his yellow cat eyes assessing her with a guarded look—she wanted to say, despite all she knew and understood now, despite all that had been revealed to her of Apollo’s motives: I’ve missed you. But the cool restraint in his glance, the grim line of his mouth, curtailed the impulse.

  “It’s the most sensible course,” he went on slowly. “All of South Russia will be overrun in a matter of weeks, maybe less. The best thing is to get you on a ship to Constantinople.” His tone was logical and detached. While jealousy gnawed at his innards and misplaced pride goaded his resentment, Apollo was still sensible enough to realize, regardless of his own whims, that the wisest course was for Kitty to leave Russia.

  He scarcely knew how he felt or what he felt, or, for Christ’s sake, what Peotr intended to do once everyone was safely in Europe. This ruined barn a few versts within the White lines wasn’t the place to make lengthy decisions about anyone’s future. Even if a more amenable environ could be found, none of them had the time. Simply to stay ahead of the Red advance would probably tax everyone’s endurance.

  Be practical, he told himself. The sorting out can come later—if they all lived through the next few weeks.

  “Aren’t you evacuating with the rest of the troops?” Kitty asked.

  Apollo said briefly, “No. Later, maybe.”

  “What are you going to do?” If she had any pride she wouldn’t even ask, but, unfortunately, she wanted to know. And when it came to Apollo, all her bridges were burned. At the thought of never seeing him again she had no pride, no conscience, no scruples. If she thought those chill golden eyes would relent, she’d throw herself at him and say, “Take me with you! Anywhere—I’ll go anywhere at all.” But there were degrees of foolishness even she wouldn’t approach, and throwing herself at such uncompromising aloofness was one of them.

  “I’ll go back to the mountain aul—that is, if Karaim, Sahin, and I can find our way through the Red Army.”

  “It’s suicide,” she breathed, and a bit of her died at the thought of his proud young life thrown away.

  “Everything’s suicide nowadays.” Apollo’s soft, even voice paused a moment as he thought of all the useless waste, and the prospects for his future, then resolutely went on unaltered. “I can’t guarantee your ship will be much better. Typhus is epidemic.”

  There was a long silence, but in the end she couldn’t resist; her control was weaker than his. “Let me stay with you, then,” she blurted out. There. Her defenses, pride, all put aside. Almost immediately she wished she could have cut out her tongue.

  Excruciating seconds passed. His lack of response was an insult in itself. Apollo’s closed expression hid any clue to the impulses of his mind, and if he wavered for a moment, he quickly firmed his resolve. At last he said with a small sigh, “I can’t.”

  Ignored by a husband and now rejected by a lover. It was worse than Kitty expected, although she had cautioned herself often enough about the “lasting affections” of men like Apollo. The resulting humiliation was more painful than she thought possible. Don’t cry, she cautioned herself inwardly, Don’t … you … dare … cry! And only a long, drawn-out breath gave indication of her tremendous effort to overcome the most terrible urge to weep.

  Any inclination she’d had to disclose Apollo’s imminent fatherhood was effectively crushed by that short, curt, “I can’t.”

  “Well, off to Novorossiisk, it seems,” she said with brittle élan, curtailing the conversation by rising from the ground and moving toward her horse. Apollo uncurled without comment to let her pass. “Have we rested long enough?” she asked casually, adjusting the girth on her saddle.

  “Long enough,” Apollo replied, grasping her around the waist and lifting her into the saddle. Adjusting Kitty’s booted feet into the wooden stirrups, he said, “We’ll be in Novorossiisk tomorrow morning.”

  Kitty swayed slightly atop her mount. Tomorrow morning was long hours away.

 
Catching the bridle, Apollo reached out a hand to steady her. “Are you all right?” he asked, seeing her face pale visibly. Suddenly she looked very small, despite the long fur coat and high peaked hat.

  No, I’m not, Kitty thought, staring at him. I’m cold. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Every bone and muscle in my body aches from the last seven hours of riding. My husband has left me. My lover doesn’t want me. My mind and body are soiled from tortured weeks with General Beriozov. My nerves are shattered, my hopes are crushed. I’m carrying my lover’s child and am about to be put on a boat for Constantinople to make a life for myself in a new land, alone.

  Fortunately the years after her parents’ deaths and the years of her joyless marriage had fortified her defenses; she had also found the strength to survive General Beriozov. The future required she garner the necessary strength once again. She had done it before, she could do it again. She must; there was no other way.

  Whipping the reins free, she said stiffly, “Thank you, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Would—” It was too late. With a whirl of cold air Kitty put her horse into a canter. Dammit, Apollo thought angrily, running toward Leda, she didn’t look fine at all, but what the hell could he do about it now? No one in this hellish war-torn land was fine anymore. Not a man or woman, not a child or beast, so why in God’s name should they be any different? “Fine” had suffocated in the bloodbath of the Revolution long ago. Don’t think, just do what you have to. Novorossiisk. That was the goal. Maybe Kitty at least would be saved. He had Leda into a gallop before she had left the barnyard.

  11

  A thin winter sunlight shone on Novorossiisk when Kitty and Apollo reached it the next morning. The weak rays glanced off the dirty ice in the gutters and shimmered on the hardened, slick surface of old snow, littered with paper, blood, refuse. The icy nord-ost wind tore at their clothes and chilled skin. Owing to the White Army’s rolling back too rapidly, the city had become a madhouse in the last three weeks as every refugee rushing before the lethal Bolshevik sickle funneled into the last free seaport in Russia. Typhus was rampant—the deadly louse-carried virus had already killed more than two million people in the last three years. Dead bodies were everywhere, lying stripped of their clothing by those so desperate for warmth against the subzero cold that they took their chances with contaminated garments. The naked bodies lay in the streets, on the sidewalks, piled in mounds of frozen flesh.

  The horses shied nervously, tossing their heads, snorting with fear at the scent of death, sidestepping the corpses as the group picked its way slowly through the littered streets. Most of the restaurants were closed; storefronts were boarded up. Lines before the shops that remained open were blocks long. Nearing the quays with the steamship offices, they could see mountains of luggage and furniture waiting to be loaded or left behind by refugees unable to pay the freight charges. The quays were also stacked with row upon row of field guns and towers of ammunition, supplies, equipment methodically being pushed into the icy waters of the bay rather than have them fall into Bolshevik hands.

  Kitty tried to avoid the sight of the dead bodies, training her gaze at a point several feet above the street, but turning the last corner to dockside, the sound of dogs snarling drew her eye.

  She reeled in the saddle. Three starving dogs were fighting over a small child’s frozen body.

  Snatching at the bridle, Apollo twisted Kitty’s horse around and supported her, pinning his own horse hard to keep Kitty from falling. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “this is impossible.” After the merest hint of a pause, strong arms lifted Kitty. Curt orders were thrown to Karaim. Kitty’s horse was put on a lead. She felt the warmth of Apollo’s burkha close over her and leaned gratefully against his muscled chest.

  Holding Kitty firmly, left-handed, the reins in his right, Apollo wheeled Leda and viciously spurred her. Answering his heels, she spun around and then raced through the polluted city, not slowing until they reached the foothills surrounding the harbor.

  In the shelter of a small grove of cypress and leafless olives, the party dismounted. Feeling her feet touch ground, Kitty attempted to steady her trembling legs.

  Apollo was genuinely worried at her weakness. She was pale as a wraith leaning against him. Lifting her away to more closely scrutinize her, he held her gently by the shoulders. Kitty swayed uncertainly.

  Bending down, he looked at her closely. “Do you feel sick?” He put a hand to her forehead.

  “I don’t think so,” Kitty whispered, her eyes only half-open. “Just all that … death. I think I fainted.”

  At least she wasn’t hot. Burning with fever was a sure sign of typhus. Dropping his hand from her chalky face, he looked at her for a long time, then turned his eyes to the contaminated city. “You can’t sail out of Novorossiisk, that’s certain,” he stated firmly. “It’s too damn dangerous with all the tif.”

  “What else can I do?” Kitty asked wearily, leaning her head into Apollo’s shoulder to keep herself upright. “If Peotr wants me to emigrate, I’d better,” she murmured into his burkha. “I’m supposed to meet him in Paris.”

  Holding Kitty lightly in his arms, Apollo wondered moodily how the devil that little triangle in Paris was going to work out. Jesus, everything was becoming complicated.

  Ever since leaving Stavropol—actually, ever since Kitty’s whereabouts had been ascertained—Apollo had been sulky. And with good reason. He wanted Kitty, damned if he didn’t, and it annoyed him. It annoyed him that he thought of her constantly. It annoyed him that she was so close and he wouldn’t let himself touch her, really touch her. She was someone else’s wife. She had been the general’s playmate for several weeks. Had she been coerced, or had she decided the exchange was profitable—her passion for a pampered existence? The sable, the rubies, the Poiret gown … Was she available to the highest bidder? Suddenly it mattered that he know—and that annoyed the hell out of him, too. Being the highest bidder didn’t present a problem; he had plenty of money, but whether he wanted someone for sale—that was the predicament.

  Unfortunately, in the weeks since December Kitty had become his devil, his princess of desire, his glimpse of heaven as well as his burning fires of hell. Emotions pulled and tugged his feelings and desire around like playful gods of Olympus while logic stood aside from the melee and cautioned restraint. Apollo clenched his teeth in bitter irritation, the muscles high over his cheekbones twitching convulsively. Some decision had to be made, and rapidly.

  Male pride and anger dictated it.

  “We’ll try Tuapse,” he said flatly. “Maybe it’s not so goddamned squalid. Some ships there should be standing by.”

  After a brief rest for tea they pushed on. On sheer willpower alone, Kitty mustered the energy to mount her own horse, but she no longer had the stamina to keep up. Several times in the next hours she fell behind, forcing the men to slow their pace. It didn’t help that food had been minimal and that she’d been cold for two days.

  With the March sun well past its zenith, shining red across the low foothills bordering the Black Sea, they stopped again to rest. When Kitty dismounted, her numbed feet and legs held her up only briefly before she fainted.

  For a long time she heard distant voices, swinging to and fro like sunlight on quaking aspen, but they didn’t affect her, crushed as she was in the misery and chill of her own blackness. Low voices spoke in the vernacular; she recognized the word for fire … food … and her name. Her name? She tried to draw herself away from the darkness but all her energy had been drained. Reviving at last when the aching chill began to leave her blood, Kitty found herself in Apollo’s arms wrapped in his burkha and a fur robe, seated close to a fire Karaim and Sahin were briskly building up.

  “What’s wrong, dushka? Tired? Is the pace too hard? Hungry?” Apollo quietly asked. For the first time since her rescue his tone was warm and concerned. Kitty looked up into his golden eyes, filled suddenly with tenderness, and decided to tell him the truth. If this was a dogged test of endu
rance, Apollo had resoundingly won. She would never be able to keep up on the journey to Tuapse—sooner or later some explanation would be necessary. Taking a deep breath for courage, Kitty said, “I’m pregnant.” Braced, she waited, apprehension filling her mind.

  Pale eyes stared unmoving at Kitty. So that’s why there were adjustable latches, his mind declared. It was his very first thought. Then some very rapid calculations snapped through his brain, digesting, evaluating. She didn’t show any indications … the early months yet. “Will Peotr be pleased?” he inquired.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered.

  Well … that’s pretty clear, Apollo thought. “The general?” He quirked a brow.

  “No,” Kitty said softly.

  “No?” He seemed surprised. “Whose?” he asked quietly, more casually than he felt.

  “Yours.” She had never before seen the blood drain from a man’s face. The sharp planes of Apollo’s skin became startlingly pale and his eyes, surprised and shimmering, turned disconcertingly blank. He continued to stare at her and she was frightened.

  Finally he took a whistling lungful of winter air, swallowed, and inquired gently, “Mine? Are you sure?” At which point all kinds of unflattering jealous suppositions came to his mind. How many other men had there been before and after him?

  “I’m sure.”

  His effort at self-control was apparent, but Apollo’s hands were trembling as he gripped Kitty’s face between his large palms. His voice, when he spoke, was forced. “Say it again,” he said in a queer sort of whisper. “Tell me again.” And in the ensuing silence he didn’t move, waiting for her answer, taut, expectant, his eyes no longer blank but piercingly alert.

  Kitty was paralyzed by his behavior, shaken by his reaction; a reaction so much worse than her most morbid fears. Woodenly she repeated, “I’m sure.”

  His hands fell away from her face. No equivocation, he mused. Give her credit for audacity. “The contest for your child’s paternity has been brisk, I’d say, these last few months. It’s friendly of you to declare me the winner. And you no doubt”—his mouth tightened into a lazy smile—“are the prize.” Abruptly his dark brows drew into a scowl. “God Almighty!” he growled. “What a damnable mess!!”