by Gayle Buck
Nothing could have snapped Megan back to herself faster than that conceited inflection. She drew back, putting distance between them. A little belatedly, she realized as she stared up into the prince’s smug expression. This is what came of giving in to temptation, she thought in self-disgust. “And precisely what does ‘ah!’ mean?” she asked.
Prince Kirov shrugged, a massive roll of shoulder. “It is just as I thought. I read your soul. You will have none other when I stand before you, mademoiselle.”
Megan was instantly angered. “Indeed!” she said in her coldest inflection. “You are very taken with yourself, your highness.”
Prince Kirov laughed suddenly, his white teeth gleaming.
“Your eyes shoot sparks when you are annoyed.” He reached out his hand to caress her hair. “My little firebird.”
“I am not your anything!” exclaimed Megan. She whirled around him and started back toward the conservatory door. “You enjoy playing with a woman’s heart, but I shall not be a toy for your entertainment!”
“Megan!” Prince Kirov followed after her.
She reached the door and opened it. Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes shone with anger. “I am leaving at once! And you need not attempt to stop me, for I am very certain that Princess Kirov will be quick to remonstrate.”
“You will not leave today,” said Prince Kirov.
Megan’s breast rose in indignation. He had thrown down the gauntlet and she snatched it up. “Won’t I just!”
He shook his head and smiled. “You will dine with me tonight. Then perhaps you will leave tomorrow.”
“I will not dine with you tonight. I am leaving,” said Megan.
“It is Monday. We Russians are a superstitious lot. You have been long enough in my country to know this. There is not a Russian coachman alive who will begin a journey on Monday,” said Prince Kirov.
Megan was furious. She had completely forgotten the Russian aversion to traveling on Mondays. She had made herself look foolish and he was grinning at her. “Tomorrow, then. I shall leave first thing tomorrow.”
“And you will dine with me tonight,” said Prince Kirov.
Megan did not deign to answer, but swept through the doorway with her head held high.
* * *
Chapter 8
Megan did dine with Prince Kirov, along with several hundred others. It was a small soiree, as Russian standards went, and it ended typically. The younger members of the gathering put on their furs and ran outside to the troikas and the smaller drozhkis that had been converted to sleds for the winter.
Megan had meant to get into the same troika with her friend, Countess Annensky, the countess’s brother, and her betrothed. Instead, Megan found herself lifted into one of the small light drozhkis by Prince Kirov. He climbed in after her. They were fitted so snugly together that he had to drape his arm over her shoulders in order to sit down. Megan realized that the prince had deliberately maneuvered to be in the drozhki with her to take advantage of this forced intimacy. She should have been furious with him, but she was not.
All of the coachmen started off at a gallop, arms outstretched straight in front of them with a rein in each hand, shouting “Beregis! Beregis! Take care! Make way! Padi! Padi!”
The drozhki flew through the iced streets. The cold wind whipped Megan’s cheeks, but she was warm in her sable furs and the close embrace of the big man seated beside her. She loved the speed and the frosted night. “It is wonderful!” she exclaimed, looking up at the moon, shining clear and glacial and the stars scintillating like winking jewels.
The snow sparkled like pulverized marble and the bells on the horse’s harness sounded a high, sweet accompaniment to their shimmering, rapid progress. The coachman broke into song. Even though sung in Russian, it was a familiar carol. Megan and her companion smiled at one another. Megan was astonished and delighted when Prince Kirov threw back his head and added his strong baritone to the song. Megan hesitated only a moment before she, too, joined in the caroling.
The drozhki and the others of their group whizzed across the frozen Neva River to the islands upon which half the city was built. A sleepy tavern was roused. Inside the huge parlor the samovar was heated to prepare the strong sweet tea; iced champagne was opened; plates of caviar, ham, herring, and little cakes were arranged on the long heavy table. The lively group of young men and women put off their furs. For more than an hour they chatted and laughed and joked over the impromptu meal. Then the furs were put on again.
“Where are we going now?” asked Megan, pulling on her fur-lined gloves.
“The ice hills!” exclaimed Countess Annensky, her eyes shining with excitement.
Megan looked at her friend in dismay. Since she had been in Russia, she had heard much about the ice hills. She had seen the high snow hills constructed up to the very eaves of the houses in St. Petersburg and marveled at the spectacle of children and servants climbing out of opened windows to slide down the packed ice on mattresses. She had seen, too, the huge ice hills that had been erected to enormous heights for the amusement of the entire population of St. Petersburg. The platforms at the top of the hills were gaily decorated open pavilions, complete with fluttering flags. Little fir trees marked the sides of the course. The mirrorlike slide was wide enough to allow as many as thirty sleds at a time and stretched the length of several city blocks.
Megan had been fascinated by the sight of the flying sleds, and particularly admired the brave souls who stood perfectly upright as they came down on wooden skates. She had envied their soaring fun, but the thought of actually riding one of the sleds was faintly terrifying. She had never seen a collision, though at the end of the ride people sometimes tumbled over each other. However, she was absolutely certain that accidents must occur. It was just that no one discussed the accidents.
“You do not admire our ice hills. Miss O’Connell?” asked Prince Kirov softly.
Megan glanced at him quickly. Never would she let him see her consternation. “They are wonderful, of course,” she said.
Prince Kirov nodded. “Good! I am glad that you enjoy them.” He handed her into the drozhki, got in, and signaled the coachman. Again the full-tilt ride across the Neva River and a return to the city.
Megan did not know what to say. She didn’t want to go down the ice hill, but she was trapped. Prince Kirov obviously expected her to do so and so did all of her friends. It would be difficult to excuse herself from the treat without giving offense.
The ice hill was reached. The party tumbled out of the troikas and drozhkis, all speaking with great excitement and hilarity. Torches lit the scene, striking glistening silver from the snow. Megan was carried along on the tide, wanting to say something, anything, but unable to do so. Prince Kirov had his hand under her elbow, conveying her toward one of the waiting sledmen. For a few kopecks, the sledman agreed to guide them down.
Megan climbed up the ice hill with the prince and the sledman, who was pulling the sled. At the top, when she looked down the dizzying winding distance to the bottom, she balked. “I—I do not think that—”
Prince Mikhail looked down into her face. “You are afraid!” he declared.
Megan flushed. “A little, yes,” she admitted.
“Then you must not go down with the sledman,” he said firmly.
Megan let out her breath in a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”
“You will go down with me,” said Prince Kirov. He turned to the sledman and there arose a heated discussion. The sledman was objecting to the commandeering of his craft, while the prince stubbornly insisted that for his lady’s peace of mind he must have it.
“Please, your highness, do not force the issue on my account,” said Megan. She was already appalled at the thought of going down on the sled, but going down without the expert guidance of the sledman was even more foolhardy. She drew a breath. “I shall go down with the sledman.”
Prince Kirov flashed a grin. His ice-blue eyes were alight. “Very well, ma
demoiselle. You are brave. You will adore the ice hill, I promise you.”
The sledman positioned the sled. It was flat and shaped like a butcher’s tray, but fantastically ornamented with red, yellow, and blue carvings. The man seated himself on it, very far back, his legs extended perfectly straight. He let it be known that the lady could seat herself.
Without consciously realizing it, Megan was clutching Prince Kirov’s arm. He glanced down at her, then covered her gloved hand with his own. “Never fear, my firebird. I shall not let harm come to you.”
He stepped over to the sled and seated himself in front of the sledman, stretching out his own long legs. “Come, Megan. You will be safe enough,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
Megan shook her head, a smile trembling on her lips. She seated herself in front of the prince, positioning her body as had the two men behind her. Her boots dangled over the front edge of the sled. She tucked her skirts securely under her.
“Are you ready, mademoiselle?”
Megan moistened her lips. “Of course.”
Prince Kirov laughed. His arms came around her from behind and pulled her securely back against him. Megan started to stiffen, but then the sled slipped over the summit of the ice hill and she spared not another thought for the prince’s assumption of intimacy. Instantly the speed and the icy wind ripped over her and she felt as though she was soaring. She was glad for the prince’s secure hold.
Megan gasped. Passing through the cutting air was extremely painful. Shards of glass seemed to be thrusting into her nostrils and lungs. Her skirts billowed and whipped, threatening to tear free, and she pressed her legs tighter against the sled bottom.
The descent seemed to last forever, yet was over in the blink of an eye.
At the bottom, Prince Kirov hauled Megan to her feet. “Let us go again, Megan!”
Megan was speechless. She could hardly suck in the cold air, it hurt so much. She shook her head, but the prince seemed to misunderstand her. She was clinging to his arms because she could scarcely stand and he probably thought that she was dizzy. And well he might, thought Megan dazedly.
Before she quite knew what was happening, she was once more positioned on the sled at the summit of the ice hill. Again the dropping descent, the burning in her lungs. Again the sensation of leaving her stomach behind as she soared away. Then a peculiar thing happened. The pain went away and instead an exquisitely pleasurable feeling enveloped her. Her senses became heightened. Megan felt herself to be intoxicated on the rush of frigid wind. She had never felt such a thrill in all of her life.
At the bottom she staggered upright. Prince Kirov caught her in his arms before she fell into the snow. Megan started laughing and flung her head and arms back in abandon. Prince Kirov laughed, too, his eyes alight as he straightened. He was still supporting her in his arms. “You see, Megan, I told you that you would adore the ice hills,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I do! I adore everything about them! The rush of ice and wind, the moment’s terror, everything!” said Megan breathlessly. “Let us go up again!”
Prince Kirov lowered his head and snatched a quick kiss. “I have unlocked the passion in you, my dove. You will never, never be the same again,” he breathed softly into her startled face. “You will remember this night forever.”
Megan suddenly stood up on her toes and kissed him. Then she whirled out of his arms and raced away, laughing back over her shoulder. “You have called me a firebird, Misha. Do not your legends say that a firebird cannot be possessed?”
Prince Kirov quickly recovered from his astonishment. He strode after her and had almost caught up to her when she joined a group of their friends on the ascent to the summit of the ice hill. He longed to pull her back into his arms, as she undoubtedly knew, judging from the luminous glance that she tossed him from out of the corners of her eyes, but it was impossible to extricate her without exciting the interest of many eyes.
For himself, he did not care. But for her, he would exercise restraint. A quickly snatched kiss in the exhilaration of the ice hill was one thing and could be easily excused as a spontaneity of the moment. A deliberate separation of man and woman from the company could only be construed as something far different. He was too wise in affairs of the heart to want there to be whispers about the woman he was going to make his wife.
Prince Kirov stopped short, absolutely stunned by his thoughts. He realized that he had been thinking of Miss Megan O’Connell in that way for some time. He had entered into a flirtation with her from the moment of her arrival at Kirov House; but just when that light flirtation had begun to turn into a serious, honorable pursuit he could not say. It was enough to know, however, that he had at last found a woman he wanted to wed.
He threw back his head, bellowing laughter into the cold clear air. His breath frosted white. He felt a surge of joy and well-being. Never had he experienced it to such a degree.
A heavy hand clapped him on the back. “Misha! You are happy, brother?”
Prince Kirov swung around to face his friend, Prince Sergei Rushevsky. Still grinning broadly, he said, “Yes! I am gloriously happy. I have discovered a pearl beyond price and I will make it mine.”
Prince Sergei laughed. “You are drunk, Misha. There are no pearls in the snow.”
“There you are wrong,” said Prince Kirov, looking up to find the boisterous group climbing toward the top of the ice hill. The slimmer figures of the women flitted among the bulkier frames of the men.
Prince Sergei’s eyes followed the direction of his gaze. “Ah! Now it is explained. You have fallen in love again. Who is it, Misha? Perhaps the little dancer from the ballet, eh? Or the exotic flower from the Caucasus?”
Prince Kirov shook his head. “No, brother, I do not tell. I will not hold her up to gossip, for the lady is the last to ever hold my heart. I am a willing prisoner of her beauty, a pensioner for her smiles, a captive of her charm!”
Prince Sergei hooted. “How many times have you claimed to be in thrall to a new passion, Misha? There is always a whirlwind of courtship, a passionate love affair! Then the glorious haze fades and you come again into your right mind.”
“It is different this time,” said Prince Kirov quickly.
“Yes, yes, Misha! It is always different,” said Prince Sergei, thumping him on the back again. “Come! The ice hill waits. Let us go, for the night is still young!”
Prince Kirov wanted to protest his fidelity to the newfound emotion that filled his heart. He wanted to swear to his steadfastness and his unshakable conviction. But he did not. All of his friends had heard the same things too many times. Prince Sergei had laughingly brushed off his declaration and so would the others. It would take action to convince them, and perhaps even himself, that this time he was well and truly falling in love.
“Yes, the ice hill waits! A race, Sergei! A race! I challenge you, brother!” exclaimed Prince Kirov, breaking into a run for the top.
Prince Sergei called out and started after him. “I am stronger, Misha! It is I who shall win!”
“We shall see, Sergei!” Prince Kirov suddenly swiveled and broadarmed his friend into the snow. Then he bolted upward again.
Prince Sergei came up out of the snow with a roar, his long arms and legs pumping. He caught up with the fleeing man and tackled him. The two men rolled over and over into the snow, shouting good-natured threats as they grappled.
At the top of the ice hill, the rest of the group had noticed. Pointing and laughing, they watched the impromptu wrestling match. “What is happening?” asked Megan. She had never seen such a contest before.
Countess Annensky gave a happy laugh. “It is the winter, Megan. The winter is a boisterous child. We play, we sing, we dance. We celebrate it in living.”
“And the men fight,” said Megan, marveling. She started laughing. “Look! They are both so covered with snow that they look like walking snowmen!”
“Snowmen? What is that?” asked the countess. Megan
told her and Countess Annensky clapped her hands in delight. “That is wonderful! I shall tell my nephews so that they may construct one. Now, let us not linger any longer. Let us go down the ice hill. Sergei and Misha will tire soon and follow us.”
Megan agreed and turned away, still smiling. She thought she would always remember the sight of two princes at play in the snow like overgrown boys. Russia was a strange and odd place, but there were many things that she would miss.
* * * *
Megan and Mrs. Tyler left St. Petersburg three mornings later. It had been impossible, after all, to leave the city without first saying good-bye to all of their new friends and acquaintances. Countess Annensky was especially devastated that Megan’s visit was to be cut short. “You will not be here for my wedding,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “I had hoped that you would be one of my wedding party.”
“How I would like that!” said Megan. “But it is not to be. Princess Kirov frowns whenever she sees me now. I have become a pariah to her and so it is best that I go home.”
Countess Annensky sighed. “Yes, that is true. It is for the best. But how I shall miss you!” She threw her arms around Megan. “You must come back to visit us. And you will stay with Sergei and me this time.”
Megan returned the tight embrace, laughing but with tears pricking at her eyes. Never had she had such a friend as the countess. It was indeed difficult to leave her. “I shall, I promise! And perhaps one day you and Sergei will come to London and I can meet you there, too.”
The two friends parted with mutual promises to write to one another between visits. Megan found it hard to take leave of her other friends, as well. She was actually rather astonished at how well accepted she had become in Russian society during her short stay. It gave her a warm feeling to know that her absence would be regretted and missed.
On the crisp morning that Megan and Mrs. Tyler had chosen to leave, they were seated cozily in the packed sled, covered by fur rugs. A second sled held most of their baggage and Simpkins, their dresser. An armed escort of Cossack horsemen assigned to protect the travelers was already mounted. A gossamer curtain of snow was falling.