by Jane Feather
“That would never do,” she said peaceably, taking her mittened hand from the bottle. “It is just that this is a rather superior vodka.” Squatting before the fire, she drew off her mittens, stretching her hands to the flickering flames. “Have you not noticed how creamy the really fine vodkas are?”
“Like velvet,” he agreed, the solemnity of his tone belied by his dancing eyes. “In the saddlebag behind you I think there is a saucepan and a skillet.”
Sophie rummaged, found the required utensils, and passed them to him. “Are we going to cook?”
“In a primitive fashion.” Taking the saucepan, he got to his feet. “I’m going to fetch snow for tea.”
That made her laugh. “But you said we do not have a samovar.”
His eyebrows lifted in mock reproof. “Have you never heard of improvisation, Sophia Alexeyevna?”
“It is something at which I have become a master,” she said quietly, looking up at him as she sat on her heels, warming her hands at the fire.
“We both have.” His eyes held hers for a long moment. “And the need for it is not disappeared.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it is less immediate, is it not? We can begin a time free of deception?”
Adam inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, and the truth flowed between them. For the moment they were free, free to give reign to the hungers so long tamped down, free to explore the glorious implications of the current of love that charged them both.
Sophie looked around the barn, where the shapes of horses emerged from the shadows, lit only by the dim glow of a single oil lamp and the flickering flames of the fire. There was one small circle of warmth, beyond it the fierce cold. She smiled, an unconsciously seductive smile. “I think that perhaps we will have to improvise.”
Desire leaped, a naked blade, into the gray eyes at that smile, the softly suggestive tone. Slowly, he put down the saucepan, dropping to his heels beside her, gently cupping her face in his hands.
“I am frightened,” Sophie whispered. “Frightened of the power of our love. It is devouring me, melting me down so that I will have no form…no shape of my own.”
“There is nothing to fear, my love,” he replied gently, tracing her mouth with his thumb. “Not when the feeling is shared. We are both in thrall to the power.” He kissed the thin, blue-veined eyelids, feeling the rapid pulsing of her eyes beneath his lips, the flutter of those sable lashes against his cheek. Slowly, his lips annointed the high cheekbones as his thumb traced the fine line of her jaw, and he felt her suspended beneath the caress, her breath paused as if she was savoring every nuance of sensation with her whole body.
Quietly, Boris Mikhailov picked up the saucepan and went outside to fetch snow for the tea.
“I want to hold you,” Adam said. “Hold you for the first time without the restraints of guilt and fear.” He ran his hands over her shoulders, feeling the sharp delineation of her collarbone. She was thinner than the first time he had held her. He thought how then he had jumped back from her as he realized what was happening, realized how close he was to betraying the trust imposed upon him. But Dmitriev had forfeited all rights to that trust…. Had Eva’s lover considered that the absent husband had forfeited his rights? The acid skewer of disillusion twisted in his entrails. He saw her at the head of the stairs, her belly, swollen with another man’s child, pushing against her skirt….
“What is it?” whispered Sophie, chilled by the strange hardening of the face that a minute before had been dissolved in tenderness. “What are you seeing?”
His eyes focused. “A moment in the past.” That was where it belonged. It must not sour this present, must not prevent his giving and receiving the wonder of love with a woman who looked the world straight between the eyes; one who he would swear had not a dishonest bone in her body.
“A bad moment?” She touched his face, the gesture expressive of both compassion and distress.
“Yes.” He would not lie to her. “But it is gone now.”
“I do not really know anything about you,” Sophie said, on a note of amazement. “Yet, I feel as if I know everything important about you.”
Adam smiled. “My love, you do.” He kissed her quickly, then stood up, deliberately dispelling the tension of uncertainty and of a fearful passion yet to be consummated. “I cannot help feeling that Boris Mikhailov has spent long enough away from the fire.”
Sophie, stricken, looked anxiously into the shadows. “How could we have been so selfish? Boris Mikhailov!” she called into the murky gloom outside the charmed circle.
“Princess?” The muzhik materialized, calm and collected, the saucepan in his hands. “I was just filling the pot.”
Sophie peered suspiciously at him, but could read nothing untoward in the familiar face. “Come and warm yourself.” She shifted sideways, giving him access to the fire. “What are we going to eat?” Seeking distance in domesticity, she began to unwrap the packages Adam had laid out. “I am famished.”
“You have not eaten since yesterday evening,” Adam observed in the same ordinary manner.
“Yesterday?” Sophie sat back on her heels, shaking her head in a measure of disbelief. “Was it only yesterday at the Stroganovs’? It seems a lifetime away.” Still shaking her head, she began to slice sausage, tossing the slices into the skillet, which she handed wordlessly to Boris. Accepting his task, he held the pan over the fire, turning the sizzling pieces. Adam, in similar fashion, found himself in possession of a knife and a loaf of bread. He cut the loaf, smiling to himself as he watched Sophie, a critical frown drawing those pronounced eyebrows together, setting out what else she considered necessary for this supper, before turning her attention to the complicated process of making tea in a saucepan of melted snow.
After a half hour of almost complete silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of knife against platter, Sophie sighed with contentment. “I have never tasted anything so good. And the tea…elixir from heaven!”
“Better than vodka?” teased Adam, smiling at her over the rim of his cup.
“There’s a time and a place for everything,” Sophie declared haughtily, gathering up the dishes and knives. “If you fetch some more snow, Boris Mikhailov, we can wash these.”
“They can wait until the morning.” Adam spoke decisively. “It is too cold to make unnecessary journeys outside.” He stood up. “We are all going to have to make one necessary journey. Boris and I will go first, Sophie. Then I will escort you.”
“I do not need an escort.” Sophie flushed slightly.
“I do not wish to offend your delicate sensibilities, Sophia Alexeyevna, but you will present a very vulnerable target for any prowling beast.”
Sophie shrugged, recognizing that it was the colonel who was speaking, briskly authoritative as he assumed command of this expedition.
“With any luck, we’ll find a post house for tomorrow night,” Adam comforted.
Sophie chuckled. “Do you really think such a hospice will provide much luxury? Vermin, certainly.”
“I daresay you are right.” Laughing, Adam primed his pistol, then he and Boris went out into the night, leaving Sophie contemplating her own trip into the snow with the glum reflection that the male sex had some most unfair advantages in certain matters.
She managed, somehow, with Adam at a discreet distance, pistol in hand, peering into the darkness, watching for the yellow eyes, the bared fangs of a hungry predator. “This is madness.” Sophie came running up to him, rubbing her mittened hands together, her breath freezing in the air. “Will we make it to Berkholzskoye, Adam?” She leaned into him for a minute, unable to pretend that the question had been asked purely in jest.
“You have my word on it,” he said with ineffable reassurance. “If we can purchase a chamberpot and a brazier for the sleigh, it will ease things considerably. Come now, inside quickly before we both become stalagmites.”
In the stable, they discovered that Boris had been busy in their absence. He had pr
epared a bed of straw and furs amongst the horses for himself, close enough to the fire that he could tend it easily throughout the night. Within the sleigh, furs were piled in thick profusion. “Found an old iron bucket,” he informed them in customary laconic fashion. “Knocked some holes in it, filled it from the fire; makes a passable brazier for the sleigh.”
Sophie peered into the vehicle and was instantly struck by the warmth thrown off into the small space by Boris’s contraption. “It’s almost cozy,” she said in awe. “Boris, you are a miracle worker.”
The muzhik grunted. “Nothing to it. I’ll bid you both good-night, then.”
They returned the valediction, then stood for a second, suddenly, unaccountably awkward. Sophie stared into the fire. She knew what was going to happen; she wanted what was going to happen with an all-consuming desire, had wanted it for so long; so why on earth should she feel as trembly and apprehensive as a virgin on her wedding night? Then it occurred to her that the analogy was not absurd. In matters of loving, she was still a virgin. Slowly, she raised her eyes. Adam was looking at her with quiet comprehension.
“I am going to love you, sweetheart. There is no need for fear.” Taking her hand, he drew her toward the sleigh. Within its shadowed warmth, he pulled the door shut, closing them into this tiny chamber of fur lit only by minute pinpricks of red glowing through the holes in the makeshift brazier. Sophie, kneeling on the fur bed, waited trustfully, opening her arms to him as he came down on the bed beside her.
“We are going to have to learn each other without eyes,” Adam whispered against her ear, caressing her face with his open palm, rubbing his knuckles against her cheekbone. “It is too cold, even with the brazier, for visible nakedness.”
A shiver quivered through the body beneath his hands at the words. “Do not be afraid.” His hand slipped down to her throat, exploring the soft contours of that slender column.
“I am not,” she replied truthfully. “Unless it be fear that I may not please you.”
His lips took hers in answer, his thumb resting against the pulse at the base of her throat, his other hand palming her scalp in firm support. Gently, playfully, he nibbled on her lower lip, and her mouth curved in a smile of pleasure at the sensual little game. Her tongue darted into the corner of his mouth, and their breath mingled, sweet and warm in this moist, silken conversation of lips. Boldly, she pushed her tongue into the velvet recess, exploring the hollows of his cheeks, the contrasting texture of his teeth. The pulse beneath his thumb quickened. Her body strained against his as for the first time she could give fearless expression to the rushing desires she could not have put into words.
His hands moved down her body, holding her against him as he took over the kiss, his tongue joining with hers in dancing delight. There was a moment when he opened his eyes and met the wondrous glow in the dark ones facing him. Slowly he drew back, placing his hands on her shoulders, leaning away from her as he explored her face, a shadowy oval in the dimness. “Let us get beneath the covers, sweetheart.” His voice was a husky murmur as he drew back the top layer of furs. “I have to have more of you than your mouth.”
“I also.” She stretched out between the layers, her arms circling him as he lay beside her. For a few minutes they lay alongside each other, savoring the freedom bestowed by the long, uninterrupted hours ahead, falling in with the other’s breathing rhythm, allowing the passion to build between them with each breath, until the warmth of their bodies filled the nest.
Adam shifted slightly, leaning up on one elbow without disturbing the tightness of the wrappings. “I am going to undress you,” he said in the whispering darkness. “If I do not let any air under here, you will not be cold.”
“I could not imagine being cold,” Sophie said, touching his face. “Not now.”
Smiling, he turned his mouth into her palm. “I shall develop eyes in every finger,” he murmured. “Even though I cannot see you, I shall know you in every facet before this night is done.”
A tremor ran through her again. She lay utterly still, poised on the brink of she knew not what, feeling his hands moving over her, drawing aside the pelisse, unfastening the cloak beneath, spreading aside the layers of material until he could sculpt the shape of her beneath the satin gown, and his hands could play upon the rise of her breasts swelling at the low neckline.
Sophie stirred beneath the touch, felt her nipples peak, hard and burning. She moved her own hands to close over his. “I am filling with wonder,” she murmured.
Taking her hands, he pressed kisses into the palms, before lifting her against him so that he could reach the hooks at the back of her gown. Deftly, as if indeed he had eyes in his fingertips, the hooks flew apart. He drew the satin forward over her shoulders, pushing it down to her waist before letting her fall back upon the furs. The little pearl buttons at the front of her chemise slid undone with sensuous ease, and Sophie felt the warm air on her breasts, the kiss of fur against her nipples as he leaned over her, exploring the soft contours with the delicate tip of a finger before taking each nipple in his mouth, nibbling the rosy crests, his tongue painting fire over the smooth hillocks.
Sophie was cast adrift, floating on a warm, viscous sea that bore her up as if she were weightless. A flat palm slipped inside the layers of clothing gathered at her waist, slipped into the cambric pantalettes beneath her bottom, lifting her so that the wadded material could be pushed down her body. The shocking intimacy of the touch brought a startled gasp to her lips. Paul would grip her hips occasionally with bruising pressure as he expended himself, but it was merely a vessel he touched; the spirit inhabiting that vessel was on some other plane. Not now, though. It was her self touched by the hands of Adam Danilevski, touched in a hungry passion that acknowledged her own.
Her thighs parted involuntarily for the magical quest for her essence. His lips nuzzled her belly so that she stirred and whimpered in pleasure, her body tightening in response. His tongue dipped into the tight bloom of her navel and she was lost in this dark, warm enclosure where delight visited her blind, naked body in ways unimagined, and she could do nothing but lie beneath the pleasure bringer, breathless for the next touch, the next whispering breath.
With sudden urgency, Adam slipped out from the covers. “I have to take off my own clothes, sweetheart. I cannot do so under the covers without letting in the cold.” Swiftly, he shed his garments, while Sophie lay watching him, then the pale shadow of his body came down to her again. His skin was chilled even by that short exposure to the air, and she drew him fiercely against her, imparting her own warmth. Instinctively, she rolled on top of him, pressing her heated body upon his, murmuring with delight at the joining of their skins, the hard thighs beneath her own, the muscular concavity of the belly that seemed made to receive the softness of her own. His hands ran down her back, molding her to him; his heart beat swiftly against her breasts, flattened against his chest; her lips took his with fierce joy as the wanton hunger demanded satisfaction and he rose in hard, throbbing promise against her thigh.
His hands spanning her narrow back, Adam rolled over, reversing their positions. “Another time, we’ll love in that way, sweet.” She could not see his smile, but she could hear it in his voice. “This way, you will stay warm.”
He was inside her, a part of her, filling her with his presence, reaching to her core, and she was taking him, consuming him, as he possessed her. Inextricable, inseparable, minds and bodies meshed, they rose in bliss, hung in ecstasy, fell in joy. And Sophie wept with the wonder of it.
Chapter 11
Sophie woke, naked and alone beneath the furs. She lay still, eyes closed, as reality reestablished itself. Slowly, she opened her eyes and sat up, holding the covers securely to her neck. It was daylight, judging by the grimy square of mica in the window aperture of the sleigh. The brazier was still alight. Someone must have replenished it at some point in the hours she had been asleep.
A tiny smile played over her lips. So that was what it was really lik
e? The journey begun on that star-filled night when Adam had first kissed her had reached its goal. Now there was a new journey to make from this fresh beginning. With a smug chuckle, she snuggled down under the furs again, allowing her hands to roam over her warm, soft flesh. In a curious way, she felt as if she had been reborn. As if during those dark days and hurtful nights in the Dmitriev palace she had been serving a species of apprenticeship, a preparation for the moment when, like the butterfly, she could emerge fully fledged from her chrysalis. She was whole, knew herself capable of arousing passion and of fulfilling her own; of inspiring love and of being inspired by it. Womanhood was hers, with all its magical rewards, its obligations and its penalties, and she looked upon the world with the clear sight of one who was finally wide awake.
“Sophia Alexeyevna, you are a shameless slugabed! It is an hour past daybreak.” Adam spoke in laughing reproof as he opened the door of the sleigh. “If we are to reach Berkholzskoye this year, we cannot lie around in barns.”
“I would have got dressed, but I do not know where my clothes are,” Sophie declared with an attempt at lofty dignity. The covers were pulled up to her nose, the dark eyes, glowing with love and the wondrous memories of passion, laughed at him, even as they invited.
It was irresistible. Adam, conscious of the time and his own frailty of will in certain matters, had determined to remain outside the sleigh until Sophie was once more clothed and beyond temptation. Instead, he found himself kneeling on the fur bed, the door closed firmly behind him.
“Your clothes are where you left them last night,” he announced solemnly, removing his gloves before sliding a hand beneath the covers. “Somewhere in here.”
Sophie squeaked in mock dismay as his questing hand found what it sought. It was not seeking her clothes. “Shame on you, Colonel! To take advantage of an innocent maid in such fashion.”
“Innocent maid, my foot!” scoffed Adam. “You are lying on your chemise. Lift up.” The hand assisted her to comply with the instruction and Sophie wriggled seductively against the flat palm. Lust, brilliant in its purity, sparked in the gray eyes. “Damn it, Sophie,” he groaned, moving his hand abruptly. “We do not have time for this. Boris Mikhailov is preparing the horses and you must have coffee and breakfast. Get dressed quickly, now.” He shuffled backward, reaching behind him to swing open the door, but his eyes remained riveted to her face.