Silver Nights

by Jane Feather

  Then the dream shattered with the violence of a cannonade. She was destined to be another man’s bride! He was behaving with her as some man had behaved with Eva…. He was betraying every trust ever invested in him. He jumped back from her, taking his hands away from that warm, giving flesh as if she were a burning brand.

  Sophie looked up at him, shock and dismay at this abrupt cessation of contact stark on her face. “What is it? What has happened?”

  Adam took himself in hand, fighting the anger that wanted to wound her as the cause, albeit unwitting, of this appalling bolt from the blue. “If you have a grain of common sense, you will forget that ever happened,” he said, his voice grating in the stillness. “As far as I am concerned, it did not.” Bending, he picked up her bundle. “We are going back to the house. Now, march!” He kept a hand on the small of her back, propelling her in front of him, but the physical contact bore no resemblance to the loving touch of a minute earlier, and Sophie, stunned, bewildered by the onrush of feelings that were unlike any she had ever before experienced, stumbled ahead of him.

  A lamp burned dimly in the corner of the living room. He marched his charge across the room, flinging open the bedchamber door. It crashed against the stone wall, and Tanya Feodorovna sat up with a cry of alarm. “Wh…wh…what has happened?” She tugged at her nightcap, askew on the graying hair. “Why, Sophia Alexeyevna, why aren’t you in bed?”

  “The princess had other ideas about the way to spend the night,” said the count caustically. “You will put her to bed, please, and bring out here, apart from her nightgown, every stitch of clothing she possesses.”

  “No!” Sophie gasped at such a humiliating instruction. “You cannot take away my clothes!”

  “On the contrary, Princess,” he said. “I can and I am going to. I fail to see why I should deprive one of my men of his well-earned rest just to guard that window. And I have no intention of standing guard myself. I do not think even you will venture far in your nightgown.”

  The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Sophie standing in the middle of the grimy little chamber, overwhelmed by the events of the evening and by this extraordinary volte-face—the man who could arouse such wondrous sensations with those skilled and tender caresses was suddenly become severe warden, transfigured into this other persona without any apparent provocation and without drawing breath, it seemed. She was bereft, hurt, and utterly confused.

  “When will you ever learn?” grumbled Tanya, rising from her mattress. “I’ve never heard of such a fuss. Hurry up, now.” Scolding vigorously, she got her erstwhile nursling out of her clothes and into her nightgown. “I’ll brush your hair.” She reached for the hairbrush, but with a furious exclamation Sophie pushed her away and thumped into bed.

  “Just leave me alone, Tanya! How can you possibly talk about hairbrushing in such a place, and at such a time?” This absurd domestic preoccupation did strike her as utterly ridiculous, even as she recognized that for Tanya Feodorovna their present situation was not at all strange. What God and the masters decreed could never be strange. One just accepted it. She lay watching in fulminating silence as Tanya gathered up her discarded clothes, folded them neatly, and took them, together with the portmanteau, out into the living room.

  “There you are, lord,” she said, as placidly as if it were the most ordinary instruction she had received.

  “Thank you.” Adam was rummaging in his own belongings. He pulled out a bottle of vodka, glancing moodily at the woman as he unscrewed the top. “You may fetch them in the morning.” Raising the bottle to his lips, he drank deeply.

  Tanya shrugged, recognizing the familiar look of a man who was going to be dipping deep into the fiery spirit throughout the night. It was the male prerogative, and a woman could count herself fortunate if the indulgence didn’t lead to raised fists. Her own man had been a terrifying devil in the drink. But somehow she didn’t think this one would be; depressed and silent, most likely. Not violent, despite provocation. He’d been gentle enough with Sophia Alexeyevna in her sickness that afternoon. But she’d clearly upset him powerfully now. Shaking her head, Tanya returned to her mattress.

  Sophie lay looking into the darkness. What had happened? What did it mean? Why did she feel as if some part of herself, hitherto dormant, had come to vibrant life? She had wanted that wonderful moment to last for eternity…had wanted most passionately for the next, inevitable step…for his hands on her body, for hers on his. What would a man’s skin feel like? Wide-eyed, she stared up at the low, beamed ceiling. That was something to be discovered in the marriage bed, something she would discover. She ran her hands over her body, trying to imagine what she would feel like to someone else. Would she be pleasing? Such a thought had never occurred to her before, but now it took on the sharp edge of reality. At the end of this journey loomed a husband, not one of her choosing, but unless he exhibited some hideous vice or disfigurement she would not find it easy to refuse him, or imperial command. Indeed, why should she? It was not as if she had an alternative to offer. It was not as if the only man who had ever kissed her could possibly be a candidate. One kiss did not constitute a marriage proposal.

  A mere wall away, Adam Danilevski drank vodka and wondered what in Hades had happened to him. He hadn’t kissed a woman since the last time he had kissed Eva. He had no truck with women who expected kisses. The only women who interested him these days were those who, for a certain price, could satisfy his basic needs. A purely commercial relationship allowed no emotional ties, and without those ties there was no possibility of the entanglements that led to betrayal. But he had been on the verge of an act of betrayal himself. The betrayal of his orders, of his position in the Imperial Guard, and the betrayal of a man who was owed, in addition to the good faith one gentleman was entitled to expect from another in a matter such as this, his unswerving loyalty by virtue of his being Adam’s commanding officer.

  Adam looked into the vodka bottle and contemplated the prospect of four weeks in the company of Sophia Alexeyevna, opposing him at every turn. At least if she fought him it would be possible to keep his distance, hide behind the harsh facade of jailer.

  Sophie fell asleep finally, the events of the day taking their toll. She had achieved some measure of resignation, as her grandfather had known she would eventually, when she stopped striving against perceived injustice and allowed common sense to reign.

  She awoke to bright sunshine. “I thought we were to leave at dawn.” She sat up, blinking, taking the bowl of coffee that Tanya was holding out.

  “The count said you needed your sleep,” Tanya informed her with a serene smile. She did not add her own opinion that the count had needed time to clear his head. “Your clothes are ready. And the count says we’ll be leaving as soon as you’re dressed.”

  Sophie put on her clothes, trying to fight the dread of what she knew the day would bring. All thoughts of the previous evening’s glory and confusion, and her subsequent conclusions, were subsumed under the sick knowledge of the wretchedness in store for her. With an effort, she straightened her shoulders, put up her chin, and walked outside into the fresh brilliance of early morning.

  Adam was not deceived by the erect posture. Her eyes held the haunted fear of a torture victim looking upon the instruments that had broken her once and that she knew were about to do so again. He walked over to her as she reached the carriage.

  “If you prefer, you may ride my horse on a leading rein, and I will ride Khan,” he said.

  There was a moment’s silence as she looked toward the now-saddled Khan, his rein loosely held by Boris Mikhailov. Then to his amazement she shook her head. “Khan has never been ridden by any but me, since the Kalmuk who first taught him to take the saddle. I cannot allow anyone else to ride him. It is a Cossack rule, if you would have the absolute trust of such an animal.”

  “You have only the two alternatives,” he said, softly insistent, unable to bear the idea of her suffering in the carriage again, yet knowing that if she ga
ve him no choice he would have to insist.

  She looked up at him, her eyes clear, that crooked smile quivering quizzically. “I think I have a third choice, Count. I will ride Khan, but I will make no attempt to flee your escort.”

  Not for the barest instant did it occur to him to doubt her. A great weight rolled from his shoulders. He smiled at her, even as he remembered that without the pretext of the role of jailer he would find it much harder to maintain a distance between them.

  “Boris Mikhailov will help you mount,” he said, catching himself as he was about to offer to perform the service himself.

  “There is no need.” Moving with that long, energetic stride, she went to Khan, rubbing his nose, resting her face against his, whispering to him for a minute, before grasping the reins handed to her by Boris Mikhailov and springing with muscular agility into the saddle.

  “Took your time coming around, didn’t you?” said Boris, checking the girth. “You’ll not best that one, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

  “Your opinion is sage as always, Boris,” Sophie said sweetly. “I had come to that determination myself.” She settled into the saddle, lifting her face to the sun and the wind, inhaling deeply.

  Adam looked at her, thinking that, once more in her own element, she had again acquired that air of power and unquestioning self-confidence. He still had her pistol, though, and on the whole he thought he would keep it until they reached St. Petersburg. What Prince Dmitriev would decide to do with a pistol-carrying bride was no concern of his aide-de-camp…. Was it?

  Chapter 5

  General, Prince Paul Dmitriev, hands clasped behind his back, marched the length of the gallery running the width of his fine stone palace on the bank of the River Neva. Long windows opened onto the river that was now dotted with small craft, schooners gay with the identifying flags of their affluent owners, and rowboats, their oars plied by men in multicolored jackets. The water sparkled under the mid-May sunshine, the merry traffic on the river and crowding the many canals linking the various parts of this city carved out of a swamp augmented the prince’s sense of satisfaction; indeed, the whole cheerful scene seemed to have been arranged especially for him.

  The prize was almost in his grasp. The runner who had just arrived, breathless and exhausted after a day-and-night ride, had said that they would now be just over a day’s journey from St. Petersburg. In the morning, the prince would ride out to meet them, to greet his bride with all due courtesy and consideration, and escort her himself to the Winter Palace, where she was to be lodged until after the wedding.

  Was she as beautiful as her mother? Paul wondered. It would be almost too much to hope for—beauty and such a fortune. The czarina had laughingly warned him that the princess had had an unconventional upbringing and might not be as docile as she should be. But docility could be taught, as the prince well knew. There were tried-and-true methods at which he was expert for achieving the mastery of spirited creatures, as well as the ordained submission of wives. His previous three wives had all come sweetly to hand after a short period of schooling. However, he would show the Golitskova only smiles and indulgence until she was legally his. The czarina would not force her into the marriage, as Dmitriev knew well. Autocrat though Catherine undoubtedly was, she was also intelligent and enlightened, considered herself humane and caring. If Sophia Alexeyevna exhibited genuine distress at the arrangements made for her, the empress would make others.

  That must not happen. A deep frown buckled Prince Dmitriev’s forehead. He had been denied the mother; he would not be denied the daughter.

  Sophia Ivanova had shown only contempt for the heart and devotion the young Prince Paul had laid at her feet; she had had eyes only for Alexis Golitskov, the two of them as lovesick as a pair of turtle doves. The prince’s lip curled at the humiliating memory that still corroded like acid. He had made a fool of himself, and the whole of St. Petersburg had laughed. He had followed her around like a spaniel pup, his adoration there for all to see, and she had spurned him publicly to marry Alexis Golitskov with great trumpeting. And afterward, the married couple had treated him with such condescending kindness. Alexis, the softhearted fool, had offered him friendship, the freedom of his house, the galling sympathy of the victor. Sophia had smiled upon him, had welcomed him to her salon, and had remained as unattainable as the Holy Mother.

  His jealous hatred for Alexis Golitskov had become a monster, many-tentacled, growing daily more hideous, in direct proportion with his ever-increasing lusting obsession for Sophia Ivanova. In the hatred he had found the salve for hurt pride, in lust’s obsession the cure for love. As he had smiled and played the game of willing loser, charming friend, insouciant companion to both husband and wife, he had waited for the opportunity that was bound to come. Sophia’s pregnancy had rocked him to the core, this overt evidence of another’s man’s enjoyment of her. And they had been so happy, billing and cooing in nauseating self-congratulation, as if no one had ever conceived a child before.

  As he paced the gallery, he could feel again the power of his loathing and jealousy. Every time he had seen her, her fruitful belly concealed beneath the loose Russian gowns that the empress had made popular again, violent images had filled his head, setting his heart to pound, sweat to mist his palms.

  Then had arisen that whole ridiculous business of Prisoner Number One. In 1741, Peter the Great’s daughter Elizabeth had taken advantage of Russia’s disaffection with the Germanic influence embodied by Anne of Brunswick, who ruled the country as regent for her infant son, Ivan VI. Elizabeth had carried out a coup d’etat and made herself empress. The mother and child were imprisoned, and the little deposed czar had been known as Prisoner Number One ever since. The young man had grown up an idiot, never allowed to see the light of day, receiving no education, yet his continued existence posed a vague threat to the succession of subsequent imperial rulers whose legitimate right to rule could be challenged by one who had been unlawfully deposed. Elizabeth had been troubled by him; her successor, Peter III, during his brief reign, had been uneasy about him; and the czarina Catherine, having deposed her husband, Peter III, and turned a blind eye to his assassination, had been alert to the possible danger of Prisoner Number One.

  His timely demise could only have been a relief, but for one whose husband had recently died a violent death also to her benefit, it was a grave embarrassment, viewed with shock by the courts and governments whose good opinions were a matter of policy and pride—those of Austria, Prussia, France, and England. Catherine had acted promptly and harshly to defeat the rumors that the rebellion leading to his death was incited by herself; visiting exemplary punishment upon any persons implicated in the plan—and incautious words had been spoken in the Golitskov salon.

  They had not amounted to much—a statement that Ivan VI had received less than justice in his short life, the reminder that he had once been designated czar and his overthrow had been conducted in a haste and secrecy that bespoke conspiracy. But in the anxious climate of the time those words could be magnified, presented as the beginnings of the plot to deliver the “rightful” czar from imprisonment. The czarina had ordered the arrest of the Golitskovs. They had taken flight in panic, and their good friend, Prince Dmitriev, had taken charge of the pursuit. Under imperial orders, of course, and with the utmost reluctance, but a man must obey his sovereign.

  He had intended to be the soul of understanding and compassion when he escorted them back to St. Petersburg and imprisonment in the great fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul—the ominous gray building that he could see now on the opposite bank across the busy, sparkling river. He had intended to promise to intercede with the empress so that Sophia Ivanova could be released to give birth in freedom. And he had intended to ensure that Alexis Golitskov did not leave the fortress alive. The widow, weak from childbirth, sorrow, and fear for her own safety, would be an easy conquest when one she trusted offered his strength and support.

  It had been a neat and pleasing plan. But
when he had reached that filthy hovel, rank with the stench of blood and death, he had found the plan in ruins.

  Nearly twenty-two years later, he was now looking upon a neat tidying of loose ends. He would have under his control the vast Golitskov fortune that had made Alexis so confident, so sure of his place at the top of the court dunghill. And he would have in his bed the daughter of Sophia Ivanova.

  It was quite perfect, Prince Dmitriev reflected. He would enjoy his own private satisfaction at this curious revenge, while providing himself with the heirs that none of his other wives had managed to bear. They had gone childless to their graves, but surely this fresh young virgin could not also be barren?

  He rubbed his hands together with anticipatory pleasure. Tomorrow he would meet Sophia Alexeyevna Golitskova, and she would meet a graying, distinguished general, anxious to please his young bride-to-be, bearing gifts suitable for a shy, unsophisticated virgin from the uncivilized steppes, and ready to offer her the calm advice, the mature strength, the experienced wisdom that would steer her through the intricacies of her first weeks at court. Thus would he ensure her dependency and allay any fears.

  Adam glanced sideways at his companion. It was a surreptitious glance, of a kind he had become adept at taking over the last weeks. Just looking at her gave him inordinate pleasure, yet he could not allow her to divine this, any more than he could allow himself to dwell upon the fact. He had fought against acknowledging it for a long time, but eventually he could not help but admit to himself that never had he enjoyed another’s company as much as he enjoyed that of this bright, bold woman, whose mind was as alert as her body. She held herself as if poised for the discovery and enjoyment of some new experience, even as she took such clear pleasure in the simple, customary things such as a ride in the sunshine, the flight of a hawk, the joyous magnificence of a nightjar, crusty black bread and mead when one was hungry and thirsty, the benediction of sleep after a day of physical exertion in the open air. She was untroubled by discomfort. Indeed, the previous night she had slept wrapped in her cloak upon a table to escape the vermin in the miserable hovel that was all they could find as shelter. And she had laughed at his own apologetic annoyance, dazzling him with those dark eyes, sparkling with fun, and the quizzical, crooked smile that so entranced him, while she ate rancid cheese and stale bread as eagerly as if they were delicacies from the imperial kitchens.