When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It looks as bad as the last one,” Lucie said, pulling her fur cloak closely about her. “I only hope there are no fleas and ticks.”

  Orlov himself helped us out of the troika, holding the door open, giving us his hand. His cheeks were flushed, his dark blue eyes gleaming in anticipation of the celebration. Vladimir gave Lucie his arm and helped her up the wet, already icing path just cleared to the door, and Orlov gripped my right arm just above the elbow. Wrapping his free arm around my waist, he guided me slowly up the path. I slipped. He supported me, pulling me closer, tightening his grip.

  “We must get you some fur-lined boots,” he told me. “These silly shoes you wear are no good for walking on ice.”

  “I’ll try to do as little walking as possible,” I said wryly.

  “Me, I will be here to see that you do not fall.”

  He gave my waist a friendly squeeze, and his strong fingers curled more tightly around my arm, squeezing the flesh with bruising power meant to be reassuring. I winced. Orlov chuckled, clutching me as I slipped again. The physical contact was disconcerting, and I was acutely aware of his nearness. Lucie was already inside now, and Vladimir held the door open for us. Orlov led me inside, released me. I was surprised to find myself a bit unsteady on my feet. My knees seemed curiously weak.

  “It’s heaven,” Lucie said, leading me over to the huge black iron stove that stood in the middle of the large, incredibly squalid room. “The worst yet. Brace yourself, Marietta.”

  Filthy straw littered the bare wooden floor. Chickens squawked angrily, running freely about the room, and a loud, nasty snorting proclaimed the presence of a pig. He burrowed in a pile of rags in one corner, not at all pleased with this invasion. Oil lamps burned smokily, casting pools of ugly yellow light, intensifying shadows. The few pieces of furniture were utterly decrepit, coated with dirt and grime, and there was dust everywhere. Orlov was speaking sharply to the man in charge, an emaciated-looking fellow with thin brown hair and sunken gray eyes filled with alarm. He wore cracked black boots, baggy blue breeches and a loose gray smock that had once been white, and he was clearly terrified as Orlov vented his displeasure at the conditions confronting us.

  The man’s wife came trudging slowly into the room with a heavy tin pan filled with peeled potatoes. Her broad, peasant face was pasty-looking and etched with a pitiful hopelessness, her brown eyes blank, like the eyes of a dumb animal. Heavy and big-boned, she had oily black hair pulled severely away from her face and worn in a bun in back. Her white blouse and long green skirt had been darned in a dozen places. Her gray apron was ragged. Oblivious to Lucie and me, oblivious to everything but the job in hand, she set the pan of potatoes down on top of the stove and filled it with water from a tarnished copper kettle. She reeked of garlic and sweat. When the pan was full of water, she trudged back into the kitchen, chickens squawking in her wake.

  Disgusted with the caretaker’s stammering, monosyllabic replies, Orlov finally shoved the man aside with surprising brutality. The pig snorted and thrashed about in its pile of rags. The caretaker cringed against a wall, even more terrified as Orlov began to snap orders to Vladimir. Vladimir nodded and went back outside, and Orlov came over to join us by the stove, his handsome face dark with anger.

  “The place is a pigsty!” he declared. “Worse than a pigsty! Give these people the least responsibility and they let everything go to ruin! The servants will clean the rooms upstairs and make them ready before I allow you ladies to see them. The chef will prepare your food on a stove the men will bring in.”

  He scowled, an angry blond giant in gray fur, and then he shook his head. The caretaker sidled out of the room, keeping against the wall. His wife trudged back in, dropped two whole garlics into the pan of boiling potatoes, added salt and left. Orlov pulled two rickety chairs over to the stove, dusted them off and told us to sit down. Servants began to pour into the posthouse heavily laden, rushing upstairs. Orlov went out back to join the cossacks. A few minutes later four cossacks burst into the room and, shouting gleefully, began to chase the chickens and brutally wring their necks. The caretaker’s wife hurried in, protesting vehemently in a strange dialect, her bovine face showing emotion for the first time. The cossacks ignored her, merrily slaughtering the rest of the chickens. When she attempted to stop them, she was knocked against the wall. Chickens all slaughtered, three of the cossacks left, taking the corpses with them, and the fourth, a brawny ruffian with long black mustache, seized the pig, hoisted it up in his arms and carried it off, laughing as it squealed in outrage.

  The chef appeared next. When he saw the condition of the room he turned pale and began to rant, throwing his hands in the air. Vladimir ordered the men to set the huge porcelain stove down and fill it with kindling, told the chef to shut up. Somehow, amidst the chaos, a meal was cooked and served to us on the wooden table that had been covered with a snowy linen cloth. I found it wildly incongruous to be eating magnificent stew with a silver spoon from a Sèvres bowl in a squalid room that smelled of rancid grease and chicken dung, but at that point I was too weary to give it much thought. After the stew there were thin potato pancakes folded over savory rarebit cooked in sherry and cream sauce, accompanied by a wonderful white wine. Vladimir hovered over us throughout the meal.

  “Are our rooms ready?” Lucie inquired when we had finished.

  Vladimir nodded. He led us upstairs. He showed Lucie into her room and then took me to mine, opening the door, giving me a little shove. In Russian I fervently hoped he understood, I told him to keep his bloody hands to himself. His face was inscrutable as he pulled the door shut, leaving me alone. The room was small with a rough hardwood floor and bare wooden walls. The bed had been covered with fine linen and satin counterpane and piled with fur rugs. A large silver brazier glowed warmly, filling the room with heat, and on the rickety wooden table beside the bed there was a carafe of hot tea, a pink porcelain cup, a plate of date bars and, surprisingly enough, my Russian grammar and a French novel. Tall yellow candles burned in silver candelabra. We might be in a squalid posthouse in the middle of a frozen wilderness, but all the comforts were provided.

  I removed my fur cloak, warm at last, poured myself a cup of tea and picked up the novel. Madame de Scudéry kept me entertained for an hour or so, but the flowery, affected style finally began to pall and the shouting and raucous laughter rising from the courtyard was altogether too distracting. I wandered to the window, peering down at the tents and blazing orange campfires. The cossacks were enormous black silhouettes against the glow, lurching about, staggering, already much the worse from the vodka Orlov had provided. Several waved their sabres overhead. Others wrestled and roisted about. Orlov was probably among them, relishing the rowdy horseplay as much as they, but I couldn’t pick him out in the shadowy crowd.

  I was still wearing my heavy, sapphire blue velvet gown with its long, tight sleeves and low-cut bodice when, ten minutes later, someone pounded on the door. Startled, I hesitated a moment, then opened it. Count Orlov grinned at me, a decidedly lopsided grin. A lock of thick golden brown hair had tumbled down across his brow. His navy blue eyes were merry, his cheeks pink from the cold. He completely filled the doorway, weaving just a little. Not really drunk, he was certainly tipsy. Attractively so, I thought.

  “Ah, you are still dressed,” he said in Russian. “I intrude?”

  “You do not intrude, but I wish you would speak French. Your voice is rather slurred and I can barely make out the words.”

  “My voice is slurred?”

  “Definitely.”

  “This I find hard to believe, Miss Danver.”

  “Believe me.”

  “I will speak the French. You must study Russian. Is boring, speaking always the French. We are in Russia now.”

  “I would never have guessed it,” I said.

  Orlov looked perplexed, confused, and then realization dawned. “Ah, you make the jest. Me, I am dense.”

  “Your brain might be just the tiniest bit foggy
at the moment,” I told him. “You’ve obviously been enjoying the celebration in the courtyard.”

  “Yes, this is true. I enjoy being with my men. Is a very long time since I see them. We have roast chickens and pig and drink much vodka. They challenge me to drink a whole bottle in one swoop, without the bottle ever leaving my lips.”

  “You obviously accepted the challenge.”

  “I pass it with ease. I put the bottle to my lips, I throw my head back and drink it all in less than a minute. My knees do not even wobble.”

  “They’re wobbling now,” I observed.

  “This is your imagination,” Orlov replied, offended.

  “Well—”

  “I do not come here to argue. I come to bring you a surprise.”

  “Indeed?”

  He nodded, grinning again. He had been holding one hand behind his back as we talked, and now he brought it into view, showing me a pair of beautiful beige leather boots lined with soft beige fur. Clutching them by the tops, he lifted them up so that I might better appreciate the soft, pliant leather, the elegant style.

  “Why—they’re lovely,” I said. “Wherever did you find them out here in the wilderness?”

  “One of my cossacks has them. He brings them along as an extra pair. He is very tough soldier, fierce and fearless as they come, but he has the small, delicate feet. When the other men tease him about these dainty feet, he bangs them on the side of the head with the butt of his sabre. I think maybe these boots fit you.”

  “I couldn’t possibly take them.”

  “They are brand-new,” he said. “He has not even had them on yet. He is honored to give them up for a good cause. I do not even have to twist his arm a little.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Maybe just a little,” he confessed, grinning.

  “I wouldn’t want him to be without an extra pair,” I said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Count Orlov, but—”

  “Do I have to twist your arm, too?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “You will take the boots.”

  “I don’t seem to have much choice.”

  “Is correct,” he informed me.

  I didn’t want to smile, but I couldn’t help it. Orlov tilted to the left, righted himself, grinned again.

  “You smile. You make the jest. Is good to see you in this mood. I think you are not sorry you come to Russia with us. The hall is very cold,” he added.

  We were still standing in the doorway. I stepped back now, and Orlov came into the room. I closed the door behind him to keep in the heat, and he stood in the middle of the floor, looking at the bed, the furs, the flickering candle flames. The gray fur hat was gone, but he was still wearing the bulky gray fur coat that made him look so enormous. He seemed to fill the room with his vitality, as though the air itself were charged with a new energy. His magnetism was almost overwhelming in these close quarters, and I wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea. He was so very, very attractive, exuding sexual allure, and I wasn’t nearly as strong, nor as immune, as I would have liked to be.

  “I think perhaps you’d better leave the boots,” I said.

  “We try them on.”

  “In the morning.”

  “Now.”

  He was tipsy. He would probably have only the vaguest memory of this tomorrow. If there was any sexual tension, it was all on my part. Count Orlov was intent only on presenting me with the boots and, in truth, was undoubtedly much too foggy with vodka to have given seduction a thought. He is just being friendly, I told myself. He is like a great big, frisky puppy. I am being absurd.

  “You sit,” he said.

  I hesitated. He gave me a little shove that was much more forceful than he had intended. The mattress sagged and bounced as my derrière landed on the bed. A fur robe spilled to the floor. I sat up, slightly dazed. Orlov squatted down and, before I could protest, reached under my skirts, wrapped his hand around my calf and lifted my right leg, propping it over his knee. His powerful fingers dug into the flesh of my calf as, with his other hand, he tugged at my shoe. It wouldn’t come off. He frowned, eyes dark with concentration, finally jerking it off. I was wearing no stockings. He held my naked foot in his hand, examining it intently, as though he had never seen a female foot before.

  “Really, Count Orlov—” I began.

  “It is most dainty, the high arch, the pink-tipped toes.”

  “I think—”

  “It is cold, too,” he said. “The skin is like ice.”

  His hand slid slowly down my calf and wrapped around my ankle, and he began to massage my foot, bending it gently, rubbing his hand over the sole, the heel, bending the toes back and forth, and the warmth grew and spread, creeping up my leg. His palm rubbed, his fingers curled, pressed, squeezed, sending delicious, tingling sensations throughout my body. The top of his head gleamed rich golden brown in the candlelight, and his lips were parted, pink and full and firm. His gray fur coat was sprinkled with snow that slowly melted in the heat.

  “Is warm now?” he inquired.

  “Let’s try on the boot,” I said.

  “Yes, I feel sure it fits.”

  He gripped my calf again and gave my leg a yank, pulling my foot closer to his chest. It touched the soft gray fur. The fur tickled. He reached for the boot and bent my foot and slipped it into the boot. I wriggled my toes, pushed down as he shoved up, and the boot slipped on as though it had been custom made. Orlov grunted a little, rocking back on his heels. I put my foot down, easing it deeper into the boot. The fur lining seemed to caress my skin. As Orlov watched, I took off my other shoe, put on the other boot and stood up, valiantly striving to retain some semblance of composure.

  “I am right,” he said. “They fit.”

  “They fit beautifully,” I agreed.

  “You are very beautiful. So beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The hair is like copper fire. I long to gather it in my hands. The eyes are so blue. I long to see them look into mine with longing. The breasts are so full. I long to squeeze them tightly.”

  “You are quite drunk,” I told him.

  “Me, I can hold my vodka.”

  “I think you’d better get up.”

  “Yes, this is a good idea.”

  He reached for my hand. He tried to pull himself up. He pulled me onto the floor beside him. He looked amazed. He shook his head. I got up and got behind him and put my hands under his arms and heaved and he managed to stumble up and then he toppled onto the bed. I sighed. He sat up, looking at me with bewildered eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I think maybe you are right. I think maybe I am just the tiniest bit foggy. The room is very warm. The walls seem to weave. I rest here for a few minutes.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Yes, you are the very proper young woman. You do not have the men in your bedroom. This I am always aware of, and I do not make the seduction. I am very considerate. I think of you and I sleep with the whore in Paris, the barmaid in Berlin, the peasant wench at the posthouse. I use the restraint. This is noble of me when I want so much to have you for myself.”

  The liquor had really gone to his head now, and he had no idea what he was saying. I realized that. Hands propped behind him, he looked up at me with navy blue eyes full of the deepest yearning, his cheeks flushed, his brow moist, and I longed to brush that damp golden brown lock from his brow and run my finger over the full pink curve of his lower lip. It had been so long, so very long since I had felt a man’s warmth inside me, and this man was so beautiful, his childlike charm so intriguing, combined with his brute strength and rugged virility.

  “I should not say these things,” he said mournfully.

  “You really shouldn’t,” I agreed.

  “I am drunk, I think. I should not have had the second bottle.”

  “It was most unwise.”

  “Now you will be angry with me becaus
e I want to pleasure you.”

  “I am not angry, Count Orlov.”

  “I have wanted to pleasure you since I first see you in England.”

  “I know.”

  “Is very difficult to be so correct when I want this so.”

  “Can you get to your room?” I asked.

  “I think this is impossible.”

  “I’ll go fetch one of the men servants,” I told him.

  I left the room. I paused in the hall for a moment and closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and then, squaring my shoulders, I went downstairs and found Vladimir sitting at the table with Ivan and two others. They were drinking vodka and eating rice cakes. I told him in a crisp, cool voice that his master was upstairs and needed assistance. Reluctantly, Vladimir got up, gave me a hostile look and followed me. Orlov was snoozing contentedly atop the pile of furs. Vladimir shook him and pulled him to his feet. Orlov protested, surly now, ready for a fight. Vladimir curled Orlov’s left arm around his shoulder, curled his right arm around Orlov’s waist and led him out of the room.

  I closed the door. I could hear them stumbling down the hall and hear Orlov’s sullen protests, and finally there was silence. I undressed and put out the candles and climbed into bed shortly thereafter, but I did not close my eyes. I stared at the moonlight streaking the darkness and listened to the crackle of the fire in the silver brazier and it seemed I could still feel his strong hands massaging my foot. It seemed I could still feel those sensations tingling within me, sensations I had not felt in too long a time. I tried to put it out of my mind. I failed.

  I got very little sleep that night.

  Chapter Nine

  The white-liveried servant who came into my room the next morning was the same slim, fair-haired youth who had served dinner to Orlov and me at The Wayfarer On the silver tray he set down on the bedside table were a crystal goblet full of orange juice, a silver pot of coffee, a porcelain cup, a flaky croissant, a pot of strawberry jam, a platter of sausage and bacon, a linen napkin. He informed me that we would be leaving in an hour and departed as unobtrusively as he had entered. Sunshine blazed into the room, dazzlingly bright as it reflected off the snow. I sat up in bed, yawning, and leisurely consumed the lavish breakfast, dreading yet another day of wearying travel.