When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  He took hold of the wolf’s tail, lifted the body up and grinned even broader when he saw the expression on my face. I could hear him chuckling as I scurried away, putting his boots to good use. Lucie had been watching us. She was amused by my hasty withdrawal. I made a face at her from the distance and began to stroll past the troikas, feeling a pleasant exhilaration after my encounter with the savage-looking, engaging cossack who was the only member of Orlov’s party who had shown me the least friendliness. Few would use the word adorable to describe him, but it was the one I felt most suitable.

  Two huge stoves had been hauled from the troikas, set up on the side of the road and filled with kindling. The chef shouted shrill orders to his underlings and complained vociferously about using up his precious supplies to feed “twenty more yowling heathens” who were totally incapable of appreciating his culinary skills. It was a sad day indeed when he left the kitchens of the Empress to join this crazy ménage.

  Pots and pans rattled, meat and vegetables were cut up, spices added into simmering broth. The underlings could prepare the stew—“Use more water! Go easy on the meat!”—and he would cook for those who could appreciate him. I smiled at the confusion, smelling the marvelous aroma of baking bread as I passed. Tall trees grew on either side of the road, trunks half-buried in snow, branches encrusted with ice that glittered brightly in the sunlight. It was good to walk, to use my legs, to breathe the crisp, invigorating air after being cooped up in the troika for so long. Would we ever get to St. Petersburg?

  Servants hastened about on various assignments. Stout canvas bags were hung over the heads of horses so that they might munch the oats inside. Troika drivers were stamping their feet and drinking hot coffee and gossiping with each other. A crowd had gathered to watch Vanya skin the wolf. I saw Orlov in the distance, immersed in conversation with one of the cossacks. He seemed to be questioning the man, and his broad, handsome face was serious as he listened to the man’s replies. His legs were planted wide apart. The gray fur coat was open in front, and he stood with fists on his thighs, the coat bunched back.

  He was a majestic figure standing there in the snow, taller than the tallest cossack, his body superbly hewn, radiating power and authority, seeming to draw the sunlight to him. I paused beside one of the supply troikas, looking at him, thinking about last night, wondering how much he remembered. Very little, I hoped. I was prepared to forget the things he had said, the words that had come unbidden to his lips in the haze of alcohol, prepared to forget the sensations that stole through my body as his hands squeezed and caressed and massaged my foot, but there would be a certain strain between us if Count Orlov had a clear memory.

  I was attracted to him, strongly attracted. I couldn’t deny that. Any woman would be, I was drawn by his warmth, his courtesy and consideration, his jovial good humor and boyish high spirits, and I was drawn by his incredible male beauty and vibrant sexuality. I knew, though, that anything other than friendship between us would be most ill-advised, and after Jeremy I was not prepared to become involved. Orlov was attracted to me, too, strongly attracted. That had been clear from the first night we had dined together in that cozy room with its gleam of yellow satin and glitter of gold, but he knew full well I would not be receptive to any advances and had settled for friendship.

  Until last night.

  Last night he had been tipsy. Last night he had lost control, and all those submerged emotions had come bubbling to the surface. Sober, if he remembered, he would be horrified at what he had said, what he had done, and I prayed he wouldn’t remember. Let it continue as it has been. Let us be comfortable with each other, polite and friendly. I sighed and moved to join Lucie, who was standing beside our troika, swathed in rich golden brown sable.

  “Enjoy your walk?” she inquired.

  “Very much. I feel better, not so stiff.”

  “Did you see any wolves?” she teased.

  “Just one, and damn you for doing that to me.”

  “It was quite dead, Marietta.”

  “It was quite horrible just the same.”

  Lucie smiled, her eyes full of girlish delight. “You made a very big success with Vanya. He told me he is going to give you the skin after he has cured it. That is quite a great honor.”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” I told her. “I’m also starving.”

  Both of us looked to where the cossacks were lining up to receive their bowls of stew and hunks of black bread. The chef was still shrieking, refusing to relinquish any of his precious rounds of cheese. The cossacks grumbled and made mock-threatening noises, teasing him unmercifully, but he adamantly refused to give up a single round. Orlov finally intervened and said of course his cossacks could have cheese, could have any of our supplies they wanted, we would all share together, and the chef waved his arms in the air in total exasperation. Someone gave him a bottle of vodka. He took a huge swig and then stalked off to shriek at his underlings.

  “Poor chef,” Lucie said. “More stomachs to fill really does present a problem. It could be serious if we’re unable to replenish our supplies at the next village.”

  “Will that be a problem?” I asked.

  “It shouldn’t be,” she said casually, “but the next village of any size is two weeks from here, under the best traveling conditions. We could easily run quite low on provisions.”

  “Cheer me up some more,” I said. “Tell me about the blizzards and avalanches.”

  “We don’t have avalanches,” she informed me, “but occasionally the roads are blocked by treacherous snow drifts. Travelers have been stranded for days, but we have plenty of men to dig a way through.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “You sound discouraged,” she teased.

  “I’ve had better days.”

  Lucie laughed, and, remembering the tormented child, I was glad to see her in so mischievous a mood. We climbed into the troika where a table had been set, linen cloth gleaming, silverware sparkling, silver-rimmed pink Sèvres beautifully arranged. Here, in the middle of a desolate road, surrounded by snow and ice, we were served a marvelous meal—spicy beet soup, potato pancakes with sour cream and caviar, flaky apple tarts sprinkled with brown sugar, strong hot tea. Lucie found nothing at all unusual about any of this, but I was still dumbfounded by the incongruity of it. I had to keep reminding myself that I was traveling with one of the richest men in the world, and only staggering wealth made such things possible.

  I took another short stroll while the lunch things were cleared away and the troikas repacked. Eight husky servants lifted the great porcelain stoves back into their vehicle. Dishes were washed, dried, carefully packed away. A servant collected the empty oat bags from around the horses’ necks. Drivers oiled harnesses, checked rigging. The bustling activity was wonderfully organized, each man knowing his job, doing it efficiently. Only the cossacks were idle, apparently too important for menial tasks. I strolled past the line, ermine hood over my head, my hands in the muff. Soft, tiny snowflakes began to drift down from the sky, floating lightly like puffs of white crystal.

  “I see you are wearing the boots,” Count Orlov said.

  I turned. He stepped up beside me, shortening his stride to match mine as we continued to walk.

  “They’re a perfect fit,” I told him. “I met Vanya earlier and thanked him for them. I want to thank you again.”

  “Was nothing,” he said amiably. “I—uh—I wasn’t sure if I did give them to you. I remember getting them from Vanya, and I think I remember starting up to your room, but everything else is hazy. I made it up the stairs?”

  “You made it,” I said.

  “I came to your room?”

  “And brought the boots.”

  Orlov gave me a sheepish grin. “I am so pleased to see my cossacks again I drink much too much vodka. I am feeling happy and aglow as I start up the stairs to your room. I hope I am polite and do not make the fool of myself.”

  “You were extremely polite,” I replied. “You gave me th
e boots and promptly passed out. I had Vladimir take you to your room.”

  “This I am ashamed of. You must think me a great booby.”

  I smiled, vastly relieved. The snowflakes were falling faster now, swirling in the air, pelting our faces like moist, gentle kisses. Our boots crunched on the ice as we passed the supply troika filled with great metal containers full of various meats packed in ice, with bags of apples, grain, flour. Swathed in black furs, the chef stood beside the vehicle with a testy expression, as though he expected someone to steal his valuable provisions. Orlov took my arm as we started back toward the troika I shared with Lucie.

  “I am afraid I have the bad news,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “The next posthouse, where we were to stay tonight, has been burned to the ground. The fire is said to have started by accident, but my cossacks believe it may have been deliberately burned.”

  “Who—who would want to do such a thing?”

  “These peasants,” he growled. “Several posthouses have been destroyed by fire lately, too many for it to be the coincidence. They are too cowardly to attack, so they do this to harass. No, no, it is nothing you must worry about,” he added hastily, seeing my expression. “Is merely a handful of discontented serfs.”

  “What shall we do tonight?” I inquired.

  “Is no problem. We have the tents, the sleeping platforms, the furs and the stoves. We even have the large tent for the horses so they will not be exposed to the elements.”

  “You certainly come prepared,” I remarked.

  “This one must do when traveling in winter. This is the reason we bring the extra troikas, to carry all these things we might need. The traveler who is not prepared can have serious trouble.”

  Lucie met us at the troika, her young face radiant. The cossacks had brought along several extra horses, she explained, and she had decided to ride this afternoon. Orlov nodded, pleased that she was so enthusiastic. I asked her if it wouldn’t be better to wait until it stopped snowing, and Lucie made an impatient gesture, looking at me as though I were an exasperating child. Snow? What was a little snow? She loved to feel it pelting her cheeks, loved to ride through the whirling white curtains. As we stood there one of the cossacks came over leading a muscular chestnut with beautiful lines. Lucie hitched her skirts up, put her foot in the stirrup, took hold of the horn and swung herself up into the saddle in one lithe, graceful movement.

  “I will see you later, Marietta,” she cried.

  She turned the horse around and galloped off to the head of the line, riding astride with the greatest of ease. No fancy sidesaddle for this daughter of Russia. She rode like a man and, I suspected, better than most. Orlov watched with proud eyes as she rode away, then helped me into the troika, climbing in himself to see that I was comfortably settled with lap robe in place, books and chocolates within reach. He checked the braziers to see that there was plenty of coals, and he actually tucked the lap robe around my knees. What good care he took of one, I thought. I couldn’t help appreciating that.

  “You will be all right?” he asked.

  “I will be fine, Count Orlov. I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  “This I realize, but you are not used to these difficult conditions. I feel guilty, subjecting you to them.”

  “I’m much tougher than I look,” I told him.

  “This I do not believe.”

  He stood up straight, his head almost touching the ceiling, and looked down at me with fond navy blue eyes half-shrouded by heavy lids. Being the helpless female was a novelty to me, a role I’d often longed to play, but it really didn’t suit me, I decided. Once, perhaps, I could have clung to some man, depending on his strength, but I had relied on my own for too many years now and the toughness I had referred to was an integral part of me. I was a fighter, a survivor, and though the role might have its attractions, a delicate, dependent female I could never be. Still, it was nice to be pampered.

  “You are comfortable?” he asked.

  “Wonderfully snug,” I assured him.

  “I leave you then.”

  The vehicle rocked slightly a few minutes later as the driver climbed onto his perch, and then there was the jingle of harness, the jangle of bells and we were on our way again, gliding smoothly along through the soft, billowing snow, moving through a frozen, crystalline world of blinding whiteness and rainbow-sheened ice, a world so strange, so alien to any I had ever known before. Snug and warm under layers of fur, I rested my feet on the silver brazier with its belly full of glowing pink coals and gazed through the windows and, unbidden, the pain came.

  It was always there, always, but much of the time I was able to hold it at bay. If I had not been able to ignore it, at least I had been able to deny its virulent force. Much of the time. The constant travel, the new sights and new people had helped, true, but they were merely distractions, like an apothecary’s powder that, when taken, deadens the agony of a migraine yet does nothing whatsoever to heal. The pain was with me still, as strong, as agonizing as it had been when I first learned of Jeremy Bond’s treachery, and when I was tired, when I was alone, when there was no powder, I was its helpless prey. If only I could forget him. If only I could hate him. If only I didn’t still love him.

  The snow was falling heavily now, thicker and thicker, the wind whipping it into a swirling furor. I closed my eyes, trying to push back the pain, trying to lock it inside. You mustn’t think of him. The son of a bitch isn’t worth it. Forget him. Forget him. Put him out of your mind. Jeremy Bond in is a thorough scoundrel, charming and ruthless and absolutely unworthy. You never meant anything to him. Not really. The minute you were gone he forgot all about you and found a blonde and sallied off with her. And your money. The bastard robbed you. Stop tormenting yourself this way.

  I enumerated all his faults, and they were manifold. I listed all of the reasons why I should detest him, and it didn’t help at all. The fact remained that, without him, I was only half alive. The fact remained that, without him, life seemed a bleak gray expanse without a single ray of sunshine, something to be endured, not enjoyed. How was it possible to enjoy anything if Jeremy wasn’t there to share it with me? What pleasure in wearing lovely clothes if Jeremy wasn’t there to see them? What joy in seeing new sights, experiencing new things if he was not beside me? What point in going on if … if one’s very reason for living was gone?

  You’ve got to get over him, I told myself. You’ve got to. This is madness. You’ll never see him again. You must face that. You must go on. I was able to rationalize, I was able to reason with myself, but the pain remained, a searing force that filled the emptiness he had left. All these weeks had gone by, and still it was agonizing. As the troika glided through the snowstorm in this alien land, as bells jangled and horse hooves clopped on the icy road, I stared into the future and it was bleak and gray and I knew I must change that. I knew I must get over him. But how?

  The surest way to get over a man was to find another man. I knew that from experience. I had loved Derek Hawke for years. I had given myself to him heart and soul and he had savaged them both, leaving a wreck, a shell of a woman, yet I had gotten over him when Jeremy came into my life. Derek meant nothing to me now. He was a name, a face, a memory that stirred not the slightest emotion inside, no bitterness, no regret. Would I ever feel that way about Jeremy? Would I ever be able to summon his image in my mind without this excruciating anguish? Would another man ever supplant him in my heart?

  No. No man was ever going to get that close to me again. No man was ever going to have that kind of power over me. I wasn’t going to be hurt like this ever again, but … must I deny myself the pleasures of male companionship because of fear? Wasn’t it possible to take the pleasure without the commitment? Wasn’t it possible to savor and enjoy and give of oneself without giving heart and soul as well? I wondered about that as I stared at the swirling white curtains that shrouded the landscape. Like the apothecary’s powder, the distractions had helped deaden th
e agony and I had managed to carry on all this time. I had managed to laugh and smile and maintain a facade and, at times, even convince myself that I was making progress, and then the pain returned and I experienced anew the emptiness, the loss, the desolation.

  Perhaps I needed a stronger powder.

  Calmly, I considered that. I intended to survive, and if that was what it took, should I deny myself the remedy? The most fascinating man I had ever met was on hand. He wanted me. I was strongly attracted to him. I had no illusions about him, it was true, but when I was with him I did not think of Jeremy Bond. Any woman foolish enough to fall in love with Count Gregory Orlov would be letting herself in for a great deal of grief, but must love enter into it? I was fond of him already, and physically, sexually, he was incredibly alluring. Was Orlov what I needed to end this anguish? Covered with furs, my feet resting on the silver brazier, I stared at the Russian snow and wondered about it. Dare I take the powder?

  Dare I take the risk?

  Chapter Ten

  Vladimir pushed back the heavy fur covering the doorway and stepped into the hut, followed by two husky servants. I was fully dressed this time, and I gazed at him coolly as the servants picked up the richly decorated porcelain tub and carried it out, water sloshing but never spilling over the rim. Wearing a heavy fur coat over his uniform, Vladimir made no effort to conceal his hostility as another servant entered to remove towels, soap, sponge, eliminating all signs of my bath. All this extra work, those hostile eyes seemed to say, merely to satisfy an eccentric whim. No one else demanded a bath. Even Lucie was content to rely on the elaborate use of perfumes and cologne.

  Although all of the men and servants were staying in tents pitched just outside the village, Lucie, Orlovn and I had each been given a hut, their occupants moving in with neighbors during our brief stay. Circular-shaped, made of mud and wood with a steep, conical roof, my hut had been transformed with carpets spread over the dirt floor, my own fur-covered sleeping platform replacing the shabby cot. Candelabra, tables, a chair, and a full-length mirror completed the luxurious effect, but no amount of luxury could dispel the odor of dirt and onions and livestock. I strongly suspected that a goat and several pigs shared the place with the family who had temporarily moved out. The large silver brazier provided a certain amount of heat, but it was still chilly. The place must be freezing without it, I thought, and I wondered how the peasants survived these dreadful winters.