“I seriously doubt you ever will.”
The smile returned. He stepped back. I put down the brush and shoved the heavy copper red waves from my temples, then faced him. The coals in the large silver brazier had burned down now and the hut was growing colder. The heavy fur felt wonderful around my shoulders.
“I go now,” he said.
“I think that would be best,” I agreed.
He strode over to the doorway and lifted the smelly fur flap, then, frowning again, paused, looking at me. Cold swept into the hut through the opening, but he didn’t seem to notice. There was something else he wanted to say, and he was trying to find a way to articulate it properly. I waited, shivering, and he finally nodded, the words at his command.
“A while ago I promise it will not happen again,” he said. “I wish to amend this statement.”
“Oh?”
“It will not happen again until you are ready. I think perhaps this will be soon.”
He left then, stepping through the doorway, letting the foul-smelling sheepskin fall back into place. I stood for several moments, staring at the hideous fur, bemused, amazed at my own calm and objectivity. I should have been shaken. I wasn’t, nor did I feel the least bit of guilt about those feelings he had stirred so easily. I should have felt guilty had I been committed to another man, but that wasn’t the case. There was no other man. Jeremy Bond was out of my life for good, and I was trying my best to exorcise his memory. Why should I deny myself the very thing that might best help me forget him?
Opening my white leather cosmetic case, I took out a small porcelain pot of clear lip balm and carefully rubbed the salve over my bruised and swollen lips, remembering those kisses, their furor, the lusty energy behind them. Orlov was a fiercely passionate man, totally abandoned when in the grip of passion, incredibly exciting, and, yes, I was disappointed that he had pulled back, surprised, too. He respected me. He was not content to use me as he would use a serving wench. That was most admirable. Ruthless brute he might well be, cruel and barely civilized beneath the glamorous facade, but no man had ever shown me such courtesy. No man had been so thoughtful and considerate, so concerned about my comfort and well-being.
Best forget about the incident for the time being, I told myself. I pulled the hood over my head and fastened the cloak securely, reveling in the luxury of the garment. Two weeks ago I had decided that a stronger powder was needed if I was to get over Jeremy Bond, and I knew now that I was ready to take it. The right time would undoubtedly come. Until then I did not intend to dwell on it. Leaving the hut, I pulled the cloak closer as the cold smote me with a physical force.
The village was indeed squalid, a large collection of dilapidated huts like the one I occupied built around a clearing with a frozen pond and rusty pump. A huge mud and wood structure contained grain and provisions for the community, and there was a blacksmith’s shed and a community bake house where even now a dozen women toiled over the ovens, turning out loaves of coarse black bread. A number of pens and enclosures held livestock, and the only solid-looking structure was a large wooden house painted with bizarre, brightly colored symbols. This was the domain of the local priest, the most powerful man in the village, a wizened old charlatan who used herbs and spells and played on the dark fears and primordial superstitions of the peasants. Plodding, illiterate, they lived much as they must have lived in the Middle Ages.
Chickens squawked, flapping across the clearing. Pigs squealed. Sullen, stony-eyed peasant men watched me as I crossed over to the hut assigned to Lucie. Though flimsily clad in wooden sabots, loose trousers, ragged cloth coats and caps, they seemed immune to the cold. One man in particular glared at me, a surly brute much taller than his comrades, his head uncovered, his thick, unkempt black hair flopping over his brow. His coarse, not unattractive features seemed to have been hewn from solid granite, and the brown-black eyes that watched my every movement seemed to burn with a curious, fanatical fire. He wore brown boots instead of sabots, and his brown trousers and coat, though shabby, seemed a slightly better quality than those the others wore. A thick leather belt cinched his coat at the waist. A dark maroon woolen scarf was wound around his neck, the ends flapping over his right shoulder.
I slipped on the ice, almost fell. A pig darted past me, sliding over the ice. The tall peasant in brown said something to the man beside him. The man nodded, scowling darkly. I knew they were talking about me, and I felt a tinge of uneasiness, wishing the cossacks and our other men weren’t all occupied elsewhere. There was no danger, of course. I realized that, and I realized, too, that it was perfectly natural for these people to resent our sudden arrival in their midst. They existed in almost subhuman conditions, their lives an endless round of back-breaking labor just to stave off starvation, and to see us surrounded by every imaginable luxury must be difficult.
Something really should be done about these conditions, I thought. There was indeed a grave inequality. The Negro slaves in Carolina lived better than these people, and it did not seem right for a select few to have so very much, to live in unparalleled splendor while the majority of their countrymen existed on a level not much higher than the animals of the field. No wonder there was so much resentment and rebellion. Empress Catherine, I knew, was trying to relieve their plight, establishing schools and hospitals, showing a great concern for all her people, but reform was a long, slow process, and one lone woman, Empress or no, could not easily change conditions that had been accepted for centuries.
Pushing aside the fur flap covering the doorway, I stepped into the hut assigned to Lucie, wincing at the odor that immediately assailed my nostrils. A goat had definitely shared this hut, possibly two or three, and Lucie had tried to mask the noxious smell by dousing everything with perfume. The combination was extremely unpleasant, but Lucie appeared not to notice, lounging comfortably on her sleeping platform covered with fur, reading a book of plays by the light of half a dozen candles blazing in a golden candelabrum. She glanced up idly as I came in, put the book down and reached for one of the exquisite bonbons arranged on a gold plate beside her.
“I see you finally decided to wear the apricot velvet,” she said lazily. “Do you like the cloak?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s perfect with your hair.”
“It was very thoughtful of the two of you to have it made up.”
Lucie took a bite of chocolate and licked creamy white filling from her finger. “Oh, it was my uncle’s idea. I merely suggested the lining. What is wrong with your mouth?”
“It—it’s just a little chapped. I thought perhaps you might like to go for a short ride. The men won’t be through loading the provisions until after lunch.”
“I think not,” she replied, reaching for another chocolate. “I know I haven’t done anything but loll around for three days, but what a luxury to be stationary. We’ll be on the move again soon enough.”
“It would do you good to get out.”
“Undoubtedly,” she admitted, “but I’m gloriously warm and comfortable. I relish being lazy. Your mouth wasn’t chapped yesterday.”
“Not as badly,” I said.
“Did my uncle bring you the cloak himself?”
“Vladimir brought it.”
“But my uncle came to your hut.”
“He did, as a matter of fact.”
“I see,” she said.
Those worldly violet-blue eyes looked at me with lazy amusement, and I had the feeling she knew exactly what happened, knew full well the reason my mouth was swollen. Lucie, I reminded myself, was even more experienced than I was with members of the opposite sex, despite her youth. She stretched, leaning against the brocaded cushions, a half-smile on her lips. I longed to slap the minx.
“I think I’ll go for a ride anyway,” I said frostily. “Natasha needs exercise.”
“You adore that mare, don’t you?”
“She’s a delightful creature.”
“You spend almost as much time on horseb
ack as you do in the troika. I must admit that you’ve become an expert rider.”
“Vanya’s an expert instructor.”
“That he is. Enjoy yourself,” she drawled. “Shall we have lunch together here—or do you plan to lunch with my uncle?”
“We’ll lunch here,” I said testily, “and if you don’t stop devouring all those chocolates, my dear, you’re going to get fat!”
Peals of silvery laughter followed me as I left the hut. Lucie could be infuriating! I marched purposefully across the clearing and past the village priest’s wooden house with its bizarre painted symbols, chickens flapping in my wake, the boots Vanya had donated crunching noisily on the icy ground. Two hefty, stolid women stepped out of the bake house as I passed, their heads covered with ragged kerchiefs, each clutching several loaves of black bread. They stepped back, lowering their eyes, as though to look upon me would bring them some kind of curse. Several men watched me but I didn’t see the tall peasant in brown.
Our party’s tents were pitched east of the village, the troikas lined up behind them. All the horses were quartered in an enormous tent, with four grooms assigned to tend them, and it was toward that tent that I moved. All of the servants were busily loading the troikas with bags of grain and beans, potatoes and flour and also the huge metal barrels that now contained the carcasses of chickens, pigs and goats packed in ice. The animals had been purchased from the peasants, slaughtered and prepared for packing, an enormous task which was one of the reasons we had been here three days.
Almost half a day had been spent haggling over the purchase itself. The peasants had been most reluctant to sell any of their beans, grain and flour, even more reluctant to part with any of their animals. Tempers had exploded. Angry words had been exchanged. The cossacks had grown ugly and threatening, sabres flashing in undeniable menace, which made the peasants even more stubborn and adamant in their refusal. There might actually have been open conflict had the priest not intervened. In his strange cone-shaped hat and flowing blue robes embroidered with cabalistic designs, he had taken command, wielding an authority that caused the surly villagers to fall back in stony silence. With his long gray beard and penetrating black eyes, he did inspire awe, and it was apparent that he was much feared. He drove a very shrewd bargain, and Orlov parted with much more gold than he had planned. Much, if not the bulk of it, ended up in the priest’s strongbox where he would “safeguard” it for his flock.
The cossacks were lounging in front of their tents as I passed, sharpening their sabres, playing cards, drinking vodka. I didn’t see Vanya, and none of them paid any attention to me. The chef and his crew were already preparing for lunch, firing up the huge porcelain stoves, taking out pots and pans. I stopped to take a crisp red apple and a few lumps of sugar. The chef parted with the sugar with considerable protest, as though it were pure gold. I was tempted to stick my tongue out at the old fusspot, but dignity prevailed. One of his assistants snickered as the chef begrudgingly handed me the sugar. The chef banged him on the head with a copper pot.
I was in a surprisingly lighthearted mood as I continued toward the enormous tent. Despite the cold, it was a glorious day, the sky a pure pearl gray. Silvery sunlight gilded the banks of snow, making it glitter like mica, and the trees in the thin woods surrounding the village were completely encased in ice, looking like strange crystal ornaments in the sun. There was no wind. The air was clean and invigorating, filling me with zest.
The beauty of the day wasn’t the only reason for my mood, of course. Instead of perturbing me, the encounter with Orlov had had a surprisingly salutary effect. I was still alive. That part of me I had thought completely atrophied had awakened as his hands gently encircled my throat, had sprung vigorously to life as his lips covered mine. I didn’t love him, would never love another man, but my body was still splendidly responsive to the touch of a virile and attractive male. I hadn’t thought it possible after Jeremy’s treachery. Was I finally getting over him? Was I finally vanquishing the pain? The remedy I had chosen might well prove completely effective.
Lifting the large flap, I stepped into the huge tent where the horses were quartered. It was warm inside, for several braziers were burning, and there was a pungent odor of hay and manure and sweaty flesh, not at all unpleasant. With their own tent to protect them from the elements, with lavish supplies of oats and hay and four grooms to tend them, the horses fared better than most of the peasants, who had not failed to notice this irony.
Natasha whinnied with delight as I approached her. She stamped the ground with her front hooves, executing excited little dance steps, it seemed, throwing her head back in ecstasy. She was a beautiful creature, slender but powerfully built, her dark tan hide rich and glossy, as smooth as silk. Her long mane and tail were a lighter, creamy tan, and her large brown eyes were very expressive, almost soulful. In the short time we had been acquainted we had become extremely attached to one another, although she had been skittish and fretful at first, not at all certain she was going to like this strange person who spoke in a foreign tongue and had hair the color of fire.
“Hello, precious,” I said. “Look what I’ve got.”
She whinnied again, nuzzling my neck, gently butting my shoulder. I smiled and stepped back, holding out the sugar in the palm of my hand. Natasha accepted it eagerly, her lips moist and velvety as she daintily scooped it up. I gave her the apple. She crunched it with glee, those eyes watching me all the while with rapt adoration. Finished with the apple, she examined my empty palm, hoping for more.
“You’re deplorably spoiled,” I scolded. “Want to go for a short jaunt?”
Natasha had mastered English more easily and far more speedily than I had mastered Russian. I still spoke that language haltingly and, often, found it difficult to comprehend fully what was being said. Natasha, however, had picked up English with breezy facility and understood every word I said. She began to prance in place, creamy mane flowing. The horses on either side of her looked askance at this capricious, undignified behavior. Just what you’d expect of a high-strung, flirty young mare like her, they seemed to say. Natasha, I might add, kept herself completely aloof from the magnificent grays, occasionally blowing her lips at them or swishing her tail provocatively as she sauntered past a particularly handsome stallion.
I asked one of the grooms to saddle her up and bring her around front. He hesitated, frowning. A husky lad nearly twenty, he had dark blond hair and intelligent brown eyes, his roughly hewn features rather coarse but not unpleasant. Thinking he hadn’t understood me, I repeated my request, enunciating each word carefully. The groom nodded, indicating that he understood, but he still hesitated, the frown making a furrow above the bridge of his nose.
“Is Vanya’s mare,” he said. His voice was a pained, croaking grunt, as though he spoke but rarely and found the process difficult. “He takes her from Leo.”
“I know she’s Vanya’s horse, but I’ve been riding her for two weeks. You have seen me ride her.”
“This is true, but Vanya, he gives the orders. Is not proper for me to take orders from you. Vanya will be displeased. He will beat me.”
“He won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
“You go for a ride?”
“I go for a ride,” I said, growing impatient.
“Alone? This is not good. I will be held responsible. Vanya will beat me severely. Maybe he even uses the knout.”
“He will, I assure you, if he discovers you’ve refused to saddle Natasha for me.”
The husky lad looked troubled, then sighed heavily, shook his head and began to untie Natasha’s lead. I caressed her silken cheek and left, waiting outside the tent for the groom to bring her. He led her out a few minutes later, humble, contrite but still looking troubled. I felt sorry for the lad and gave him a friendly smile as he helped me up onto the saddle. I had a little difficulty arranging my skirts, but there was no sidesaddle available. I would have refused one anyway, preferring to ride astride with boots firmly in t
he stirrups that had been shortened for me. Natasha whinnied quietly, eager to be off. The groom handed me the reins.
“You will be gone long?” he grunted.
“Not long. I’m just going for a short ride.”
“Should have man with you. Should have guard.”
“I’m not going far,” I told him.
“Is not wise. May hot be safe. Me, I shall be held responsible.”
“Please don’t worry about it. It will be all right.”
He stepped back, brow furrowed as he watched me click the reins and gently prod Natasha’s flanks with my knees. I rode off, delighted to feel the powerful animal beneath me, delighted to feel the rapport we seemed to share. We moved at a brisk trot, Natasha holding back until I gave her permission to break loose. I decided not to follow the road leading out of the village. Instead, we would saunter through the woods. The trees were spaced wide apart, there was plenty of room, and the ground looked relatively smooth. What pleasure it would be to explore that crystalline wonderland of glittering ice. I turned into the woods. I would just explore the outskirts. I wouldn’t go far. I smiled to myself as I thought of the groom’s apprehension. The lad meant no harm. He was just being cautious.
I should have listened to him.
Chapter Eleven
Natasha pranced delicately over the icy, snow-covered ground, disappointed that we were not going to gallop but content to caper about, enjoying the crunching sound her hooves made as we moved under the shimmering, ice-encased branches. The trunks, too, were encased in ice, great drifts of snow piled up around them, and icicles hung from every limb, gleaming, glittering in the sun, shedding multihued, iridescent light. Pale blue-gray shadows spread across the ground, darkening to violet in spots, and the white of the snow was even more blinding in contrast. It was indeed a wonderland, a cold and crystal world of fantastic shapes and deceptive beauty, for it could become treacherous if one were trapped among these gigantic crystal ornaments which no longer resembled trees.
When Love Commands Page 20