by Jane Feather
Gently, with the same wonder, he made his own reexploration, a fingertip caressing her parted lips, painting the planes of her face, smoothing over her eyelids.
“Why did you not tell me about your wife?” She had not meant to ask it so abruptly, had she? But the words had spoken themselves.
His hand fell to his lap. “I suppose it was inevitable you would hear of it on some gossip’s tongue.”
“It does not alter anything,” she said. “But I do not understand why you would not have mentioned it.”
“It is a piece of the past that had no relevance to the present,” he said quietly. “It would have relevance only to the future—the future we do not have, Sophie.” He shrugged. “I saw no point in discussing it.”
She sat, feeling chilled and empty. It was not unreasonable to say that such a fact had had no importance in the fairyland they had inhabited at Berkholzskoye. Yet the cold dismissal of her perceived right to have been told hurt most dreadfully. “Do you have any children?” She tried to make the inquiry sound simply curious, but the throb of anxiety in her voice could not be disguised. Adam merely shook his head in brusque negative. She swallowed, plunged. “How did your wife die?”
“They did not tell you?” A scornful, acid laugh cracked in the enclosed space. “It was an accident.”
And the child she was supposed to have been carrying? But clearly he was not going to mention that. And she could not ask. The words would not form themselves. Whatever the truth of that, it was his to keep. She had transgressed sufficiently with her questions.
She leaned back against the fur-covered seat, closing her eyes against the pain. Her body ached for his, for the conjoining of flesh and spirit, yet they were as far apart in this tiny, private, gliding space as Siberia is from Moscow. Then she felt his breath rustle across her cheeks, his mouth cover hers. Her head fell back, neck arched against the seat back. His hand slid over the vulnerable, opened column, tracing her jaw as his tongue pressed deep within her mouth. She received this kiss; her mouth was the passive receptacle possessed by the conquering, insistent one above. And in the passivity was to be found a blissful yielding of pain, of doubt, of the need to act and to decide. Her hands lay open on the seat at her sides, palms up, fingers curled; her throat arched white above the dark fur of her cloak; her eyelashes spread, sable half-moons against the delicate pink-and-cream complexion.
Adam drew back and her eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes opened, looking into the intent, passion-filled gaze hanging over her. “I do not know how this is to be managed.” The usual light tenor of his voice was lost in the deep resonance of desire. “How closely watched are you?”
Her head moved in languid negative against the seat. “Not at all. Paul rarely comes near me, except in public. I do not know if he questions Maria, but I come and go so freely she could never be certain where I was, or with whom.”
“Then I will see what I can contrive. Such liaisons are conducted all over the city. I am sure there must be commonly known methods of facilitating them.” His tone was neutral, but Sophie could hear his distaste and it shook her out of her languor.
“Adam, love, if you do not wish for this, then we do not have to—”
“Don’t be foolish! At least let us be honest in this. Being near you, I cannot deprive myself of your sweetness, of your body, of loving your body with mine. I told you the way it would be. I have neither the strength of spirit nor of flesh.”
The words of love and passion came out with the angry force of body blows, and Sophie flinched at the implicit accusation. She was responsible for this self-directed derision because she had been too incontinent herself to accept the clean break that would have brought some measure of peace.
The sleigh drew to a halt. Her hand fluttered toward his cheek—in apology, in appeal, Sophie did not know. Adam regarded her gravely for an instant. “I will tell you where to come to me as soon as I have made the necessary arrangements.” He swung open the door, sprang lightly to the ground, and reached out his hand courteously to assist her to alight.
“Thank you, Count,” she said in a dull tone. How could there be so much anger and resentment where there was an infinity of loving need and surpassing desire? How could he speak so coldly about arrangements for an assignation, when a minute before she had been pierced with his longing for her, awash with her own? He had treated her curiosity about his marriage with the indifferent contempt one accorded an inquisitive gossip, so that she felt at fault—not just for asking about it, but for knowing about it. Her interest was considered impertinent and irrelevant because Adam Danilevski’s past could only be of importance to her if she had a future with Adam Danilevski; something that was not to be.
Methodically, and with the cool efficiency he would bring to preparations for a military exercise, Adam set about organizing his affair with the wife of General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. A word or two dropped in the mess elicited an address: A small hunting cottage on the banks of the river, some three versts from Kiev, offered a secluded trysting place. Only money was required to ensure that it would be empty whenever he needed it, fires and refreshment provided by peasant hands—hands that would disappear at least an hour before the count was expected.
The court calendar being common property, it was a simple matter to pick an afternoon empty of official engagements, when Princess Dmitrievna could reasonably be excused attendance on the empress.
Directions, the day and time of the assignation, were committed to paper. Not once did his blood race at the prospect of an afternoon of love in a cottage on the banks of the frozen river. He was as coldly detached as if he were making these arrangements for some other pair of illicit lovers snatching a clandestine hour or two for the hasty and imperative satisfaction of their lust.
He picked the occasion for instructing his mistress with the same dispassionate care. Catherine was giving audience to petitioners from all over the countryside in one of her open receptions, when she received the most humble muzhiks, accepted their obeisance as they prostrated themselves before her, then listened with the utmost attention to the problems of a village, domestic or agricultural, questioning the peasants in detail about the dried-up well, the murrain that had destroyed a herd of cattle. There was not an issue, however insignificant, that she did not accord her full attention.
Sophie was in attendance, as usual, sitting with Prince de Ligne and Comte de Ségur, who made no attempt to conceal their fascination with this aspect of the empress and her subjects. “Is it customary, Princess, for a peasant to call his empress, Little Mother?” The Comte de Ségur raised a questioning eyebrow. “Such familiarity is extraordinary. In France it would be unheard of.”
Sophie smiled. “The relationship of the Russian to his sovereign is complex, Comte. He reveres her as a divinity, yet worships her as a mother. You notice that they use the familiar second-person form of address and Her Imperial Majesty responds—oh—” she broke off. “Count Danilevski. Are you too come with a petition for Her Majesty?” She smiled archly, although her heart lurched, and a mist dewed her palms. They had had no speech since the sleigh ride. She had glimpsed him across a salon, a courtyard, heard his voice occasionally, but until now he had never come close enough to acknowledge her presence.
“My message is for you, Princess, as it happens,” he said easily, bowing as he handed her a folded paper. “Prince Dmitriev desired me to give you this. He is occupied with a review at present.”
“Oh, yes, he said he would send me some details for tomorrow’s procession.” Sophie slipped the paper into her reticule, wondering at how readily one developed these skills at deception. “We were just discussing the peculiarities of the Russian’s relationship with his sovereign, Count. It is very different in Poland, I understand.”
“Poland as it now exists, Princess, bears little resemblance to the nation of my childhood,” Adam replied. “Then it was clear to whom a Pole owed his allegiance.” He shrugged. “Now, except for the tiny minority still und
er the sovereignty of the king of Poland, an Austrian, Russian, or Prussian demands allegiance. Indeed, even in minuscule Poland, the Russian ambassador is the real ruler. Stanislas Poniatowski is a puppet king and has always been so.”
“Those are strong words, Count.” Prince de Ligne spoke gently, yet with ill-concealed interest.
With a smile and a word, Sophie excused herself. She had known her question would elicit the reaction from Adam that it had. His feelings about the country of his birth and his confused sense of nationality had not been kept from her. She understood that in many ways it was now an intellectual issue for him rather than an emotional one, and the conversational diversion she had presented them gave her the natural opportunity to leave the ambassadors, whose entertainment was her responsibility during the audiences, whilst taking attention away from the message-passing.
The message was terse, no words of love and promise, simply precise directions, a time set for the following afternoon, the curt instruction to come alone and on horseback. Did he really think she would arrive at a lover’s hideaway in a sleigh complete with driver?
A prickle of unease, a spurt of misgiving deep in her belly, took the edge off anticipation’s delight. Adam didn’t want this. He did not want it, but he could not help himself from taking it. Where was the joy in that? Where was love’s light touch? Was there only to be the weight of lust? Was this what he had known would happen when he painted that dreadful picture of sordid scrabbling? Or was he determined to fulfill his own prophecy, forcing her participation in the fulfillment?
The following afternoon, these questions about to be answered, Sophie rode along the bank of the river, the instructions engraved on her brain so that she had no need to consult the paper in the pocket of her habit. A little bridge appeared exactly where it was supposed to. She turned her horse to cross over the frozen water. The air was crisp, but the bite of winter had gone from it and the sun’s power could be felt. The ice glistened damply as the surface melted, and the snow beneath the horse’s hooves had turned to slush. A flock of ducks rose from the marshes lining the far bank; wings outstretched, they swooped low over the river, crying in mournful alarm at Sophie’s approach.
Her hand went to the pistol fastened to her saddle. Then she shook her head in annoyance. The action had been the automatic one of an inveterate hunter, but ducks were not her quarry this afternoon.
Adam stood in the doorway of the cottage, looking along the river, waiting for his first sight of her. The peace was profound, not a sign of human occupancy in the sunlit, white, gleaming landscape. It should have brought him a matching peace as he waited for the woman he loved, but he could find no feeling but weary disillusion in his soul. This was no solution—a snatched afternoon in a borrowed cottage. Where had Eva conducted her little adventures? The thought intruded in its ugliness. Of course, in the absence of the husband she would not have had to scurry in corners. Perhaps she took her lovers from the household staff, virile young lackeys and grooms all eager and willing to serve the mistress.
With an exclamation of disgust, Adam swung on his heel, going back into the cottage. Wine, olives, a plate of cakes stood upon the table; the stove glowed warmly; the divan was spread with cashmere shawls. The perfect picture of the perfect love nest. Impatiently, he went outside again. Sophie was cantering toward him on an ordinary-looking mount that did not do her justice. But Khan had been left in safety with Boris Mikhailov at Berkholzskoye.
“Oh, what a pretty place.” Laughing, glowing, sparkling, she came up to him, throwing her leg across the saddlebow as she sprang energetically to the ground. “How clever of you, love.”
“These things can be arranged, as I told you,” he heard himself say almost distantly, when he wanted to laugh with her, take pleasure with her in their surroundings, carry her into the cottage to the soft divan and the stove’s warmth.
Uncertainty scudded across Sophie’s mobile countenance; hurt swam in the dark eyes. Then, resolutely she smiled again, pulling off her fur hat, tossing back her hair as it tumbled over her shoulders. “Show me inside. If it is half as pretty as the outside, it must be enchanting.” She reached for his hand, refusing to be daunted by the lack of response, pulling him to the door. “Oh, it is enchanting! An enchanted cottage!” She turned into his arms, standing on her toes to kiss him, holding his head firmly between her hands.
Slowly, reluctantly almost, his arms banded her waist, his hands flattening on her back, molding her to him as her tongue danced with his and weary disillusion retreated under the hungry onslaught of passion. It was as if an eternity had passed since they had last held each other, an eternity of believing that never again would they embrace each other in this way. The wanting exploded in savage necessity. He was pulling her clothes from her body while she still clung to him as if to move so much as an inch away from him would rend her flesh. His nails scraped her skin under the urgent stripping, but she barely felt it, moving sinuously against him, her mouth adhered to his, their whispering, whimpering breath mingling in the candid words of desire.
Naked, she stood against him, feeling the roughness of his jacket rasping across her nipples as his hands felt her, probed her, his knee pushing apart her legs, the wool of his britches harsh against the inner softness of her thighs. She felt as if she could never have enough of his hands, of the rough possession that confirmed his own desperate urgency as it brought her to frenzied bliss. She bit his mouth, wild in her wanting, and he lifted her, tossing her onto the divan, coming down with her even as he unfastened his britches, kicking them from him. Her thighs fell open to receive him, his hands beneath her buttocks bruised as they lifted her for his plunging entry. Deep, deep he drove into her, his mouth on hers, his clothed body pressing her into the mattress. There was no slow spiral of desire leading them to extinction. Annihilation engulfed them in a heart-stopping moment when the intensity of pleasure could not be believed.
Sophie heard the pounding of her blood, so loud it seemed to fill the room. Her skin was drenched with the sweat of ecstasy, her body, felled by pleasure, sprawled unmoving. Slowly, Adam rolled away from her, falling upon his back, one hand resting heavily on her belly. They lay thus for a long time, until life and strength crept back. Adam turned, propping himself on one elbow to look down at the prone body beside him.
Her lips were swollen with his kisses, her skin reddened by the abrasiveness of his clothes. A long scratch ran down her arm, another across her thigh. “You bear the marks of battle, my love,” he said with a soft smile, bending to kiss the mute witnesses to shared passion’s satisfaction.
Sophie stretched lethargically, caressing the bent head. “They were earned in a good cause. But it’s fortunate Paul no longer visits my bed.”
Adam sat up abruptly. “Was that necessary?” The gray eyes had lost their love light. “Do you think this is some sort of game? In the name of all the saints! Do you think I need that kind of reminder?” Eva would not have had to worry about such marks of passion upon her body with her husband so conveniently absent. They were an inevitable risk, weren’t they, in these tricky triangles? Marks of wantonness to be hidden if excuses could not be found…lies constructed…husbands deceived…The weary disillusion slopped over him again. He got off the bed, going to the table to pour wine. “You had better get back to the palace. We do not want your absence to be remarked.”
Sophie sat up, trying to gather herself together to confront this stranger in Adam’s skin. “I do not understand why you see things as different between us now, just because we are no longer at Berkholzskoye.”
“Don’t you, Sophie?” He pulled on his britches and crossed to the bed. “Do you really not see the difference? Does the deceit not touch you in the slightest? The contriving, the conniving, the pretty love nest used by so many others in need of seclusion for their own little adventures?”
Sophie put her hands over her ears. “I won’t hear these things! It is love we share, the grandeur of love, not some sordid carnal need.�
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“And what was that, would you say?” Bitterness laced his voice as he looked down at her, wanton and vulnerable in her nakedness. “Was that lust or love, Sophie?”
“Both,” she whispered. “I would not feel the one without the other.”
“And what do you feel now?”
“Nothing,” she said in defeat. “Nothing at all.”
“Then shall I show you the power of lust?” He sat down on the bed. “Demonstrate how it is possible to feel the one without the other?” He pushed her backward on the bed. “Let me show you what needs such a love nest satisfies, Sophie.” There was a caressing note in his voice, yet it set her trembling as if at some menace. The gray eyes were cool as he brushed aside the tumbled brown hair, glinting chestnut against the whiteness of her breast. Her skin jumped at the brush of his fingers, burned at the press of his lips, the dewy stroking path of his tongue teasing the proud curves of her breast, flicking the rose-tipped crest. Sophie could not fight the responses of her body, could not prevent the tumultuous beat of her heart, the suffusion of anticipated pleasure.
The muscles of her abdomen grew rigid under the hard pressure of a flat palm. She looked up into the face above her. It was Adam’s face, closed in concentration, detached, not a flicker of response as he performed this task he had set himself. Shocked despair drained her of all initiative. She closed her eyes tightly, but tears scalded her eyelids, squeezed beneath them to cluster on the thick sable eyelashes. They were tears of loss, of humiliation, as the inexorable trespass continued and her body rose to meet this pleasure that was being administered as some form of penalty for an offense she did not know she had committed.
Her eyelashes swept up, showing him the drenched dark pools of her eyes. “How could you?” The words were no more than a whisper. “Why would you do this to me? What have I done?”