Silver Nights

by Jane Feather

  With a horrified exclamation, Prince Golitskov stepped between them, and Sophie seemed to come out of her trance. She touched her grandfather lightly on the arm, then walked past him to climb into the carriage. Tanya, laden with baskets and packages, scrambled up behind her. The door closed.

  “God damn it, man!” Golitskov had lost all his calm, the ironic veneer wiped away as if it had never been. “She cannot bear confined spaces, and she becomes travel sick in a carriage.”

  Adam bowed, clicking his heels together so that his spurs rang in the cool morning air. “I did not choose this, Prince. I must bid you farewell, and thank you for your hospitality.” The polite phrases tripped off his tongue in his haste to have done with this agonizing scene. The longer they stood here, the worse it would be for both the princess and Golitskov. He turned, swung onto his horse, raised his hand in a signal that they should move out, and the cavalcade set off.

  Sophie sat huddled in the corner, unable to bring herself to look out of the window for one last sight of her beloved home, of the man who had been all and everything to her since she could remember. She did not know that he stood in the doorway until the carriage had passed out of sight at the bottom of the poplar-lined drive.

  “Cheer up, now,” Tanya said, patting Sophie’s knee, offering cheerful peasant wisdom. “Don’t think of what you’re leaving, think of what you’re going to.”

  “I am trying not to think of that,” Sophie said, then gave up. How could she explain how she felt to Tanya, who from the moment of birth had never expected to have any say in what happened to her? Tanya was another man’s property, his to do with as he pleased. She counted her blessings daily that her master was a kind and just man. She had never felt the lash, never gone hungry. What greater happiness could there be for a serf? And now she was going to St. Petersburg with a mistress who was about to take her place in the wonderful world of the court. Tanya could see only joy and magnificence ahead.

  The interminable morning wore on. The carriage swayed and jolted over the ill-paved road that was the main highway to Kiev. By the end of the first hour Sophie felt the tightening around her scalp that heralded the violent headache and the wretched nausea of the motion sickness she could never escape when traveling for any distance in this manner. She slumped despairingly into the corner.

  An hour later, Tanya leaned out of the carriage window, calling to the coachman. He pulled in his horses and Tanya helped Sophie’s hunched figure to the ground. Sophie stumbled behind the feeble privacy afforded by a scrawny bush. Tanya bent over her, rubbing her back as she vomited miserably, the pounding in her head increasing to near-unbearable pain.

  “What the devil is the matter?” Adam rode up to the halted carriage.

  “The princess, Your Honor, isn’t feeling well,” responded the Golitskov coachman stolidly. “Can’t abide carriages…never has been able to.”

  Adam cursed with soft fluency. Of all the damnably ludicrous things: that that strong, fast-shooting, hard-riding Cossack woman should suffer from travel sickness! He waited until the two reappeared, and his heart sank at Sophie’s deathly pallor. “For God’s sake, is there nothing you can give her?” he demanded of Tanya. “You must know what to do.”

  “Not much to be done, lord,” said Tanya, clucking soothingly at Sophie as she encouraged her back into the carriage. “She’ll be right as rain as soon as we stop moving.”

  They stopped moving with dreadful frequency throughout the rest of the day, and Adam began to despair of covering the fifty versts to Kiev in the next two days. He had hoped to cover almost half the distance, some fifteen miles, by nightfall, but he was appalled by his charge’s distress, even as he had no idea what he could do to relieve it. He could not allow her to ride Khan. Even with a leading rein, the mighty horse would be unstoppable.

  By mid-afternoon, Adam knew they could go no farther that day. Sophie seemed to be shrinking before his eyes, a wan shadow of that glowing, vibrant creature to which he had become accustomed in all her infuriating vigor.

  They reached a respectable-sized posting house, where he called a halt, going inside to inspect the accommodations. The postman was able to offer a private chamber at the rear of the house. It was not pristine, but it was a great deal less primitive than many they would experience on this journey, as Adam well knew.

  He went back to the carriage, opened the door, and stepped onto the footstep. Sophie, still huddled in her corner, did not seem to be aware of her surroundings. Her eyes were lackluster and sunken in her ashen face. “Come,” he said gently. “You will be better in bed.” When she showed no inclination to move, he twisted awkwardly in the confined space, slipping his arms beneath her to lift her against him. She was no lightweight, for all her slimness and present fragility, he reflected absently, stepping backward to the ground, where he was able to adjust his burden so that she lay in his arms.

  The long sable eyelashes fluttered. “I do beg your pardon,” she said in a thread of a voice. “It is feeble, I know, but I cannot seem to help it.”

  “I did not imagine you could,” he observed on a dry note. “We all have our weaknesses.” He carried her into the posting house, laying her upon the cot in the bedchamber. “The postman’s wife will help you with whatever you need,” he said to Tanya as he left the room.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, now, Your Honor,” Tanya said comfortably, bustling over to the baggage piled in the corner of the room. “I’ll make the princess a tisane, and she’ll sleep for a little, then she’ll be ready for her dinner, I don’t doubt.”

  Adam stared. The idea that one who had been painfully spewing up her guts every twenty minutes throughout the day, and was now collapsed in a state of complete exhaustion, could possibly be ready for her dinner any time within the week struck him as pure fantasy. He went outside to see to the disposition of his troop and wrestle with the problem of the morrow. A month of days like today would fell an ox, and Sophia Alexeyevna, for all her wiry strength, was not of that breed.

  He returned to the posting house two hours later, when the savory smells of cooking filled the air. In the one living room, already sitting at the plank table, he found Sophia, pale, certainly, but composed.

  “I am famished,” she stated matter-of-factly, cutting into a loaf of black bread and helping herself to a dish of salted pickles. “The stew smells wonderful, does it not?”

  Adam sat down opposite her. “Wonderful,” he agreed, bemused by this astonishing transformation. “Oh, thank you.” He took the slice of bread she offered him on the point of her knife. “You are feeling better, it seems.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully. “I am not such a milksop that I cannot recover once the motion stops.”

  “Clearly not. I cannot imagine how I could have thought otherwise,” he murmured, reaching for the pickles.

  “It is a chicken stew,” Sophie informed him through a mouthful of bread. “The postman’s wife killed it in your honor. I am not in general in favor of fresh-killed chicken, myself. I think the flavor is better, the flesh more tender, when the bird is allowed to cool before plucking. But I gather the good woman did not have anything else she considered suitable to put before such an important soldier.” Her voice was utterly innocent, yet he could have sworn that there was a glimmer of mischief in the dark eyes, which seemed amazingly to have recovered their glow.

  “I am honored,” he said. “But I shall be more so if I can find something to drink.” He looked around the room.

  “There is klukva.” Sophie passed him a jug of cranberry liqueur. “The postman’s wife makes it. It is really quite tolerable. But she said that if it is too strong for you, you may have kvass, instead.”

  “Thank you, but I do not care for weak beer,” Adam replied. “You, however, should not be drinking liqueur. It cannot possibly be good for your stomach.”

  “It is very warming,” she declared blithely. “Do not tell me, Count, that I am not even to decide what I may eat or drink on this journey.
”

  The arrival of the postman’s wife bearing the chicken stew saved him from response, and throughout the remainder of their meal his companion offered him no further provocation, except that she drank klukva as if she had hollow legs. It appeared to have no effect on her whatsoever, and he decided this version could not be as strong as some he had tasted. Either that, or Sophia Alexeyevna had been taught to hold her drink with the same ease with which she held a pistol. Knowing Prince Golitskov, Adam wryly suspected the latter to be the case.

  She led the conversation in the manner of an experienced hostess, asking him the inoffensive social questions about himself and his family, never intrusive, yet giving the appearance of genuine interest. There was not a trace of the bitter anger, the obstinate refusal to accept her situation, to which he had become accustomed, and he was at pains to discover what had produced this change of mood. Perhaps her wretched day had caused the softening effect.

  It seemed as if that was the case. When she rose from the table, she yawned delicately, saying, “You will excuse me if I retire, Count. I find myself somewhat fatigued.”

  “Of course,” he said, rising politely. “I am sorry, but we must leave again at dawn. I would like to reach Kiev by nightfall, if it is at all possible.”

  “I expect it will be, Count.” Not a flicker crossed her face, not a hesitation in the equable tone. “I am not made of porcelain.” She curtsied, and he found himself looking for a hint of irony in the remark as he bowed in response. But he could detect nothing, and her fatigue could hardly be feigned after such a day.

  As she disappeared through the rear door into the chamber beyond, he went outside into the now chilly evening. His own choice of resting place was limited. The one bedchamber having been appropriated for the sole use of the princess and her maid, the postman had been able to offer his distinguished guest a cot in the living room, unless he would prefer to share the family’s accommodations in the living quarters behind the kitchen. Or, of course, there was the hayloft over the stables, where the troop, the coachman, and Boris Mikhailov were already installed. Adam had opted for the cot in the living room, but found himself unwilling to seek his rest until the rich aromas of chicken stew and klukva had dissipated somewhat.

  Sophie found Tanya snoring resonantly on the mattress in the corner of the chamber. A day that began at sunup and ended at sundown seemed perfectly fitting to Tanya Feodorovna. But Sophie knew that her own fatigue and tension had gone beyond sleep. She was accustomed to vigorous exercise and the bracing refreshment of the open air. Instead, she had spent a day of torment shut up in a dark, airless carriage interior, with the prospect of another such day ahead of her…and another such…and another such…until the city walls would enclose her, and the bars of a marriage…

  She could not endure it. It was the stark truth, and she knew that, without conscious planning, she had been doing all in her power this evening to encourage her escort to drop his guard. Now, she went to the tiny window, looking out into the dusk, thinking rapidly. She could not return to Berkholzskoye…not yet. But she had the Golitskov gems; her grandfather had not intended that they should be put to use so soon, but they had been an unconditional gift. She had her pistol, and she had Khan, the unbeatable Khan. Once on his back, she could outstrip all pursuit, cross the border into Poland…and from there into Austria. A world where the czarina’s imperial will did not hold sway. What would a fugitive do there?

  Not a useful question at this point, decided Sophie. She moved silently around the little chamber, gathering up the few things she considered necessary. The gems, her pistol, a change of clothes; boots, hooded cloak, and gloves would provide protection against the night chills. The thought of the fresh night air, of the sensation as it whistled past her ears, of the sound of Khan’s hooves pounding across the steppes, eating up the miles that lay between her and freedom, was so heady that for a second she felt almost dizzy.

  There was a profound silence in the posting house. The postman and his family would also follow the sun in their daily routine. Where was the count? That was the all-important question. The bedchamber opened directly onto the living room, and clearly she could not risk leaving by that route. It would have to be the window. She looked doubtfully at the tiny aperture. It appeared barely big enough for an adult, even a tiny one, to squeeze through. But at least she was tall rather than stout. Resolutely, she dropped her possessions through the window, hearing the soft thud as they hit the earth beneath. Swinging herself onto the stone sill, she managed with an elaborate contortion to get her legs through the window. Leaning backward, so that her head was clear of the top of the window, she slithered forward until most of her was hanging in space. Then she dropped, ducking her head, to land intact and relatively quietly beside her bundle.

  She paused, listening to the night noises of the steppe. They were the usual noises, the sough of the wind, the howl of a wolf, nothing to alarm…no human sounds. Picking up her bundle, she crept around the corner of the house, clinging to the shadows of the walls, wishing the sky were less clear. The stars were so bright, it could almost have been day.

  The low stable building loomed ahead, but she had to cross open ground to reach it. Again, she paused, motionless, straining every nerve and fiber to sense another human presence. But again there was nothing, just the lightless building at her back, the white streak of the dusty road, a screen of trees on the other side of that road, and her goal in front of her. Crouching low, she ran across the open ground.

  Adam broke from the trees just as she reached the stable door. For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether he had really seen that unmistakable figure, whether it was not a trick of the strange light. Then he was running across the road. Stealthily, he slipped into the pitch darkness of the stable behind her. Straw rustled beneath the nighttime stirrings of the beasts in their stalls, but there was no way in the blackness to tell which horse was where. She would have to traverse the entire length of the building, he thought, in order to identify Khan, and he skinned his eyes into the darkness. But he could see no shadow separate from any of the others, could hear no sound of movement other than the horses. Then came a soft clicking sound that was definitely human. It was answered by a low whicker, indicating that Khan and his mistress had their own form of communication.

  The sound had come from Adam’s right, and he padded on tiptoe toward it. A shape solidified out of the shadows, reaching up to unlatch the gate to a stall.

  He pounced; so fast Sophie had no time to register his advent before he had grasped her around the waist with an iron arm, his other hand clamped to her mouth. “You are incorrigible, Sophie!” he hissed against her ear. “Now, don’t make a sound or you’ll bring the entire troop down from the loft.”

  In her shock, Sophie offered no resistance; yet despite the painful pounding of her heart, she noticed that for the first time he had used her familiar name. She was hustled, still clutching her bundle, out of the concealing darkness, back into the night brightness.

  “Just what have you got there?” Adam demanded. He had one arm still around her waist, but he held out his free hand imperatively for her burden.

  Once he saw its contents, she would have no chance of persuading him that she had simply wished to take a nighttime ride after her day of enforced idleness. Never again would he be careless enough to afford her such an opportunity for flight. Sophie looked defeat squarely in the eye. She was going to St. Petersburg with the escort of Count Adam Danilevski, and there was no point fighting the fact any longer. Without a word, she yielded up the bundle.

  Adam went through it in silence, whistling soundlessly at the contents of the gem casket. He thrust her pistol into his belt, placing the rest of her possessions upon the ground before turning her to face him. “What am I going to do with you, Sophia Alexeyevna?”

  The oval face, upturned in the starlight, had regained its earlier healthy bloom, he thought with shocking irrelevance. The dark eyes were luminous, that generous mouth ope
ned slightly as if she searched for an answer to his question.

  The answer came from nowhere, an impulse he could do nothing to prevent. His head lowered with infinite slowness and his mouth took hers. A violent tremor ran through her body, and she leaped against him as if she had been struck by lightning. The pressure of his lips increased while for a second she struggled to evade an invasion that seemed to go far beyond her mouth. The arm binding her tightened, and with an almost searing thoroughness, he forced her lips apart so that she was opened to receive the deep exploration of his thrusting tongue. There was a moment when she thought wildly that this was some demonic form of punishment; then, in the crimson-shot blackness of her closed eyes, came the absolute realization that nothing so wondrously pleasurable could be punitive. A slow, spreading warmth filled her; her body melted with exquisite languor against the hardness of the one that held her; her mouth softened in welcome.

  As if in response, the arm holding her relaxed, became a firm, warm presence on her body. His hand flattened against the curve of her hip as he drew her closer to him and the tip of his tongue played sweetly in the corner of her mouth. Her head fell back, offering the slender, vulnerable arch of her throat. His lips moved down, nuzzled against the pulse point that beat like a bird’s wing against his mouth as he slipped his free hand into the opening of her jacket, cupping the soft roundness of one breast in his palm, feeling the heated skin, the sudden hardness of her nipple pressing against the fine lawn of her shirt.

  The lean suppleness of the body between his hands delighted him as she moved against him, almost unconsciously wanton in the candid expression of desire. He was aware of the fragrance of her hair and skin, redolent with the freshness of the steppes, and the blood pounded in his veins, his hands moving urgently over her as she reached against him.