Then, miraculously—and he viewed it as a miracle forever after—the baby’s head emerged, its little face downward. Apollo reached down one hand to support the small head, gently easing Kitty onto the carpet with his other hand. The tiny shoulders came next and with one final contraction, the baby was born. Apollo had delivered his son! And his son it was, at first glance and no mistaking. Any chafing, murky doubts Apollo might have harbored were instantly dispelled. A tiny treasure in red and gold. Looking at him, Apollo marveled to see his own hair, his own eyes and features printed in miniature. A fine, perfect boy child, light and fair, hair pale as swansdown, lay in his father’s large hands. After a brief, furious cry of complaint the child lapsed into quiet contentment, his unblinking eyes gravely surveying the jubilant golden gaze of his father.
Apollo wept then in happiness and profound relief.
Minutes later, coming back from a great distance, Kitty said in a very small voice, “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” For a moment her mind cleared and she saw Apollo’s yellow head bent over her, tears streaming down his face. She blinked as her vision clouded over, then closed her eyes in exhaustion, a faint smile playing over her serene face. “I did it, didn’t I?”
Apollo gazed down at the new scrap of humanity cradled in his palms, adoration in his eyes, and breathed softly, “You gave me a son.”
While Kitty, her eyes black with fatigue, dozed in the aftermath of her strenuous labor, Apollo bathed the baby, wrapped him in a Warm shawl, and then simply sat and admired his son for a long, contented time.
Kitty heard a voice, dreamlike, as a child waking from a nap hears a voice in the summer air outside his bedroom window. She recognized Apollo’s quiet murmur and wondered for a vague, forgetful moment whom else he would address so tenderly. Under the soft and gentle cadence he sounded tired, but she had no energy to decipher the puzzle of words and sank comfortably back into her slumber.
Later, when Kitty’s eyes opened—attentive this time—she glanced at the small bundle lying near her and inquired in a quiet, breathy murmur, “Do we have a son or a daughter?”
“A son, dushka … a very beautiful son.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Is the old argument finally reconciled?”
Apollo grinned sheepishly. “Irrevocably, darling.” He turned back the shawl from the baby’s face so Kitty could see for herself.
Studying the features, a small, happy smile touched Kitty’s mouth. Her son’s hair was pale like Apollo’s in the summer; his nose, remarkably un-babylike, was classically straight like his father’s. And the Tartar ancestor, who had swept across the steppes from the east so long ago, left his mark once again on the youngest member of the Kuzans. Her child’s feathery brows swept up like baby heron’s wings over large, precious eyes, tipped exotically to catch the slanted brows. With eyes like that his patrimony could not be questioned.
“He’s beautiful,” she said, beaming.
“Very beautiful,” Apollo agreed softly. “Like his mother.”
“He has your eyes,” Kitty murmured with satisfaction. Those golden eyes, Kitty thought, that can tease, cajole, amorously entreat, and make you forgive them anything.
“Do you think so?” Apollo said, too awed by the precious littleness of his son, the overwhelming babyness, to distinguish features. “Whosever eyes, sweetheart, he’s perfect. Thank you for giving him to me.”
“Are you really pleased?” Kitty asked, suddenly overtaken by a terrible vulnerability. After all, she wasn’t even married to Apollo, and Peotr was perhaps still alive somewhere out in the world beyond the mountains. How would Dagestani custom accept the child? Mountain law governed so much of Apollo’s thinking.
Apollo’s throat constricted. “More than pleased, kitten—thrilled, ecstatic, every other superlative expression.” He touched the baby’s cheek gently, then picked up Kitty’s hand and carried it to his lips, holding it afterward in both of his own. “I can’t thank you enough. It wasn’t easy for you.” There was a pause. “Now that it’s over, I’ll confess I was worried as hell. The entire night will be engraved forever on my liver. Are you all right? Is the pain gone?”
She nodded. “I’ve a confession, too. There were moments last night when I wanted to wring your neck for putting me into this predicament—even though I knew it wasn’t particularly your fault.”
“I do remember,” Apollo said, smiling faintly, “that I had a role in making this son of ours, but I had my irrational moments last night, too. There were times when I wanted to shout, ‘Stop! Stop all this. It isn’t working out.’” His expression was humorous, but Kitty was surprised to hear his voice shake. “I’m proud of you,” Apollo whispered, “and proud of the son you gave me.” His adoring smile entered his golden eyes before he bent to kiss Kitty, raining caresses on her lids, and on her cheeks, and lips and hair. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Kitty breathed, inhaling the sweet smell of him, knowing this quixotic man, who could kill without remorse and yet be infinitely tender and protective to those he loved, was the heart and center of her life.
When the sun glowed with midmorning warmth, Apollo carried his family down the mountain, afraid that the horses’ jolting might be too uneven for Kitty’s present state. The horses were set out to graze; he handed the baby to Kitty, then lifted them both into his arms.
He walked slowly, holding her against his chest to keep from jarring her, careful of his precious burden, and very soon Kitty and the baby dozed. He chose his route prudently, intent on not disturbing them. His cavalryman’s fluent, rolling gait never altered, nor did his breathing, although the burden was heavy. It was only when Kitty wakened and he spoke that she realized—with a shock—how much sheer willpower that smooth, even journey had required.
“We’re almost to one of the summer grazing meadows,” he said.
When she insisted they stop now, he chuckled, without much breath to do it with, and said, “You’re not in a very good position … to give orders.”
Kitty made a point of staying awake after that. From there on they stopped to rest often, to eat from the stores in the pack Apollo carried on his shoulders, or to drink from the mountain streams that rushed in miniature torrents down the mountainside. Rustic in its simplicity, blissful in its harmony, the small family was the microcosm of the universe.
Approaching the village, they immediately became the center of elated congratulations. A long procession followed them through the aul, cheering and celebrating the birth of a new heir to the nation. Apollo accepted the felicitous regards cheerfully, and the masculine jocular allusions gracefully. He was at heart more pleased and content than ever before in his life, surrounded by people he loved and who loved him and who would love his child. An heir, his son; a deep sense of satisfaction permeated his soul, and the shining happiness in his golden eyes was visible to the entire village. Although everyone knew the countess wasn’t his wife, this fine boy was the Falcon’s, and that was enough. Jubilation continued throughout the night and the official celebration, which began in earnest the following morning, lasted five days.
At the end of the week, when all the festivities abated and some semblance of normalcy returned to everyone’s lives, Iskender and Apollo took wine together late one night.
“Have you decided on a name yet?” Iskender asked, leaning over to fill the delicate Persian cups.
“Not yet,” Apollo replied with a small, crooked smile. “Kitty, as you know, has a mind of her own. We haven’t been able to agree.”
“He should be baptized soon.”
Apollo’s smile widened, and one dark brow rose. “That, I’m afraid, is another point of contention,” he said agreeably.
“Humph,” snorted his autocratic great-grandfather. “Times have changed since my youth. Women are becoming …”
“Unmanageable?” Apollo suggested cheerfully.
“Precisely,” Iskender retorted, but his voice was tolerant. “I understand it’s called … progress.”
�
��Whatever it’s called, I quite adore Kitty, Pushka.”
“And your son?” Iskender’s old eyes shone with pride. He had already showered the newborn babe with gifts and titles and magnificent horseflesh as befitting a mountain warrior and future khan.
“Those feelings are too deep to describe,” Apollo said simply. Apollo had fallen passionately in love with his son. He played with him so much that Kitty had to coax the baby away to feed him. Apollo insisted on helping with his bath and dressing. He brought him down to the village every day, displaying him with intense delight to every pleased member of the tribe.
“He’s very beautiful,” Iskender declared. “And, if I might add without angering you”—his heavy lids lowered infinitesimally—“undoubtedly yours.”
“As I’ve been telling you these many months.” Apollo’s smile was benign.
“Impertinent pup. As if you didn’t breathe a sigh of relief as well as I.”
“Perhaps a small one,” Apollo admitted with a twisted grin. “Events had been quite chaotic, you must admit, and one’s cynicism is hard to abruptly jettison.”
“What of marriage?” Iskender asked.
Apollo wasn’t surprised by the sudden question; he’d been anticipating it for days. It was important, although not necessarily imperative, that he marry the mother of his son. “All in limbo at the moment. I left a message at Poti months ago before we entered the mountains, asking Papa to obtain a divorce for Kitty. None of his communications have mentioned anything about it. Evidently there are problems. Under the circumstances, it’s to be expected. Somehow Peotr has to either be located or declared dead. Were the emperor still alive, an imperial edict could have easily circumvented all the bureaucratic red tape, but …” Apollo turned his palms up.
“Your family could increase in the meantime.”
“In that case, the children can all be legitimized in one fell swoop. You know the Kuzans have a tradition of irregular unions anyway. It’s typical. No harm has ever come of it. Money opens all doors, Pushka, as you well know. Legitimacy or illegitimacy has never stopped a Kuzan yet. And who knows … Papa may have good news soon.” Apollo’s expression became solemn, his voice grave. “Kitty means everything to me, Pushka, and I intend to marry her as soon as possible.”
“Good,” his great-grandfather replied succinctly. “And as to the name and baptism, I trust you’ll be able to come to an agreement soon. It’s not wise, As-saqr As-saghir, to let a woman always have her way.”
“Oh, I have my way on more than enough occasions to keep me satisfied. Life isn’t a contest, after all. I very much enjoy giving Kitty what she wants and the reciprocity is … genial, I assure you.”
“Humph,” the old man said again, but his dark eyes twinkled knowingly from the harsh craggy face, for he saw that his young great-grandson was more content than ever before in his life.
In time the youngest of the Kuzans found himself with a very long name, since neither of his parents were known for their submissive temperaments. Kitty wanted him named Gregory for her father. Apollo then felt his father should be similarly honored; Alexander was added. The members of his clan had chosen their own name: Yarak, which meant a young falcon in keen hunting conditions: Custom, of course, required the patronymic. So in due time when he was baptized, the baby became Prince Gregory Alexander Yarak Apollonovich Kuzan. His parents called him the Cub.
From the day of his birth, the Cub became their joy and their focus. When he smiled for the first time they both agreed he was extremely clever. When he learned to communicate with his toes, they marveled at his dexterity. “I showed him your picture today, Apollo, and he laughed.” Kitty beamed with pride. In happy accord, the young parents decided the Cub would be much more comfortable—with such keen intelligence—at the Sorbonne, rather than at Le Rosey. That warm fall, optimistic plans were made for his future in great detail, including tennis, polo, Nice, English governesses, and French châteaus. Apollo said nothing unpalatable about the savage terror called world revolution and did not mention that men, women, and children were vanishing by the thousands without a trace. He didn’t say they were prisoners in their paradise. He didn’t say anything because the Cub was still very small, and plans could change. For the moment, their world ended on the borders of the mountain valley, and it was perfect.
In the sunny days of the autumn of 1920, while Apollo, Kitty, and the Cub passed their time in happy companionship, reports from the outside world informed them of Wrangel’s final defeat on the Crimean peninsula. While Bolshevik suzerainty encompassed all of South Russia with the exception of Georgia, Azerbaijan having fallen in April, continued uprisings and furious resistance persisted up and down the countryside.
Apollo had been chafing at the bit for several weeks now. Numerous raiding parties had been coming and going, and with the rebellion continuing so near in Azerbaijan, the opportunities to tweak Soviet noses and confiscate Soviet gold were constant.
One night in November, Apollo and Kitty were lying in bed. He was propped up on one arm, his free hand tracing languorous patterns over Kitty’s naked flesh. Both were sated from lovemaking, lazy and replete.
“For a matron, ma petite,” Apollo said very softly, “you have a most tantalizing body.” His fingers lightly trailed the curves from neck to hip, his practiced touch feather-light and as delicate as a hummingbird’s. “Have I told you lately how much I adore you?”
Kitty’s deep green eyes, drowsy with a rich and luxurious satisfaction, languidly drifted over the broad-shouldered, athletic-man sprawled beside her, and the firelight picked up a bewitching glimmer from under her heavy lashes. “You know how I despise vanity in women, but tell me again. I think it’s been a minute or so since you last mentioned it.”
“Je t’adore,” he whispered against her ear, the curve of her jaw, against her neck, then his warm breath tickled one rosy nipple, and by the time Apollo had traveled his leisurely path down Kitty’s voluptuous body, leaving a trail of fiery kisses, the object of his adoration was emitting soft moans of pleasure, her fingers laced in his pale satiny curls, now lying between her thighs. “No, no,” she had murmured, feeling her senses were quite unable to withstand another assault no matter how deliciously tender. Then her quiet denials turned to breathy sighs as Apollo’s tongue explored and his long fingers gently probed, opening the way for his lightly caressing tongue, and very soon her sighs changed to pleading entreaty. Kitty’s body had been flattered, captivated, seduced to a fine frenzy of sensation so wanton that nothing would suffice but the satisfaction she craved. “Apollo, please …” Kitty implored softly, moistening her upper lip with her tongue. “I want to feel you.” Her hands tugged gently on his shoulders.
Apollo slowly lifted his head and said very quietly, his breath stirring warm against her, “But you are feeling me.” And he went back to his pleasant business. Kitty arched and gasped at the shock wave when his lips touched again, grew wild under the insinuating tongue that licked, nibbled, explored.
“Apollo, chéri, please, please … I’m going to die,” she moaned in a low, throaty whisper. “I want you inside me.”
He raised his head again. “Ahh … you want that inside you.”
“Yes, yes … hurry—” Kitty groaned, the torrid, pulsing focus of her world beneath Apollo’s mouth.
“How much do you want it?” he teased, his chin resting on the light triangle of silken hair, his lean fingers running over the smoothness of her stomach.
“Apollo—” Kitty wailed.
“One small favor …”
“Anything!”
Apollo’s eyes were twin pools of serene, unblemished gold, chaste in their innocence. “Anything?” he teased, recklessness glinting in his formerly guileless expression. “It almost makes one greedy.”
“Apollo!”
“Patience, sweet one,” he said calmly, “I’m hurrying.” She was tearing at his shoulders, writhing softly in an agony of desire while he drew his long body up from the foot of
the bed. He hesitated on the brink of entering her. “My favor’s granted?”
“Yes, yes—please. …” Apollo had, in his expert way, lit a flaming fire of longing that burned out of control, burned so fiercely and deeply that the only sensation Kitty was aware of was the rush of blood through her veins and skin, a heated violence so wild that nothing could breach the perimeter of her mind but her frenzied, driving need for him.
Apollo penetrated her, slowly, leisurely, making certain Kitty felt every silken centimeter of the invading hardness, and when he reached the full depth of his thrust, he lingered deep inside. Kitty arched against the exquisite, tantalizing rapture washing out in waves from the vital masculine presence inside her. She undulated, her hips moving slowly beneath his, her head thrown back, eyes closed, oblivious to all except the flaming hot climax beating into her nerve endings.
Apollo withdrew then in a languorous lifting of his lean hips and Kitty’s fingers left blood on his back.
“No!” she cried wildly, her shadowy green eyes unfocused, a new strength in her hands now clutching Apollo’s arms. So immersed was she in the carnal tide pouring out from the center of her being that nothing else mattered.
“Hush, dushka,” Apollo whispered, shrugging off her hands, his thumbs gentling the soft verges of her breasts. His strong mouth curved into a lazy smile. “You’re always so impatient, like a … European. Let me touch you again, here … and here … and here.” Kitty trembled. “See how you like that?” Apollo’s husky voice went on, his own sexual hunger evident in the delicate hoarseness. His dark hands slid up the length of Kitty’s long, slender legs, forcing them wide, lingering, his palms warm against her inner thighs. The tips of his fingers touched her heated moistness and her shiver was breathless in its urgency. Knowing she couldn’t wait much longer, his mouth lowered over hers and minutes later, her legs wrapped around him, they took each other to a singular earthly paradise.
Sweet Love, Survive Page 26