Sweet Love, Survive

by Johnson, Susan

  “What was that all about?” Kitty inquired, glancing nervously at the black rage still so evident in Apollo’s expression. The night air was cool—more than cool; chill—when they emerged from Iskender-Khan’s tower citadel, and before long the angry flush faded from Apollo’s lean face.

  “Nothing,” Apollo replied, lifting her onto the horse, held in readiness by a servant.

  “I heard my name,” Kitty continued, her words quiet but clear in the still black night.

  “Mentioned in passing, nothing more,” he dissembled, adjusting a stirrup before leaping lightly into his saddle.

  “You won’t tell me?”

  He didn’t answer, only reached over for the reins of her mount and, gently nudging Leda, drove her down the steep street leading away from the palace.

  “Apollo—” Kitty pressed.

  “Nothing to tell. A ridiculous argument I’m tired of, that’s all. And I told Pushka so. Please, sweetheart, I don’t want to go into it.” His voice was weary and a little sad.

  “If it’s anything I’ve said or done—” Kitty apologized.

  “No, it’s nothing you’ve said. …” And the unfinished sentence hung in the air.

  After long, awkward moments in which both wished the past few months could have been undone, all the painful memories wiped clean, Apollo halted at the crest of the trail and drew up the reins he was holding so their horses were abreast. The night wind ruffled his flaxen hair, tugged at the pale wispy tendrils framing Kitty’s face. Behind them lay the mountain aul, below them the large, fruitful valley, beyond—on the distant mountain wall—a great bastion of rock, overlaid and terraced by intricacies of pale marble. Apollo’s home; lights shining warm and glowing from hundreds of windows. Reaching out, Apollo’s fingers cupped Kitty’s chin, gently turning her face to his. “I love you, Kitty,” he said very, very softly. “Nothing else matters.”

  Tears sparkled in Kitty’s green eyes. “Just keep telling me that,” she whispered, so desperately in love. She loved the fair, handsome man whose thigh intimately brushed hers, loved him with a passion and intensity that dwarfed even the soaring snow-capped mountain peaks. “Don’t ever stop … loving me,” she breathed, quietly as wing beats in a night sky. Her unshed tears spilled over in glimmering rivers.

  He stretched out his arms for her and with a smooth strength lifted her into his embrace. Kitty felt the rough shagginess of his burkha against her cheek, heard his powerful heart beating beneath her ear.

  I tried, he thought, holding her close. I tried to stop loving you. His arms tightened, enfolding her protectively. The moon shone off his tawny head and caught at his gilded curls when he bent his head to kiss Kitty’s gently curved lips. “Till the rocks melt with the sun. …” he murmured, their warm breath mingling. Then their lips touched and doubt, uncertainty, war, guilt, husbands, generals, daunting cynicism disappeared at the first tentative brushing caress. Hope and happiness trembled and quickened with a force so explosive they both caught their breath at the wonder of it.

  Their lips and mouths tasted, blended, their tongues danced lightly in blissful exploration as they paused from time to time on the slow ride across the sleeping valley to the lighted palace on the rocky cliff. And when Apollo carried Kitty up the courtyard stairs, across the enormous entrance hall, up the divided marble stairway, and along the entire length of the second floor to his suite overlooking the distant mountain peaks, no one else existed in the entire universe, no one save themselves.

  Dozens of servants had parted like waves before their master’s progress upstairs, having been on the ready since afternoon to welcome the Falcon home. Not until the bedroom door opened before him did Apollo see faces in the murmuring sea of welcome. He turned at the threshold, Kitty held high in his arms, and beaming from ear to ear said, “My woman, Countess Kitty Radachek.”

  A flurry of greetings broke from the massed servants, to himself, to his “woman,” all of which he acknowledged with his flashing white smile, a polite bow, and a few short words of heartfelt appreciation for being home. “My lady’s exhausted,” he went on, “so you can all tell me what I missed during the last few years—tomorrow.” Half turning into the bedroom, he added, “And if anyone knocks on this door in the morning, I’ll have their head.” His smile belied the fierceness of the threat.

  Kicking the door shut, his heelless kidskin boots padded across the peach-and-green Oushak carpet. Laying Kitty gently on the oversize tortoiseshell bed, he followed her down, poised above her, arms framing her face. His eyes gleamed possessively in the subdued light of the bedroom. His voice was roughly husky. “You’re my woman, dushka … forever.”

  “Forever,” Kitty breathed happily, lacing her arms around his neck.

  Mine at last, he thought, remembering the months of unfulfilled longing. Now, his seething brain thought. “In my house, in my bed, under me,” he whispered softly and reached for the tiny amber buttons.

  Suddenly his hand stayed. “The baby … is it all right?”

  Kitty nodded shyly and murmured so low he had to bend his head to catch the words, “Love me … love me.”

  “All my days,” the golden-haired prince of a mountain kingdom, heir to the immodest Kuzan fortune and title, warrior, pilot, explosives expert, and lover of beautiful women gravely replied, “all my days.”

  Apollo’s touch—warm, soft, tender against her body—slid the silk tunic from her shoulders.

  “Is this real?” Kitty whispered, looking up into his eyes. “Are we really safe and together for always? Tell me it isn’t a dream; tell me I won’t wake up and find myself back …”—her voice diminished to a pained, scarcely heard breath and she shuddered a little—“back in that blood-washed land.”

  Strong, masculine fingers compassionately smoothed the line of her collarbone, stroked the ivory satin of her shoulders. Apollo’s glance melted into hers. “This is real, dushka. You and I are real …. You’re mine and I’m yours ’til eternity, and no one and nothing will ever separate us again.”

  Kitty’s small hands lightly caressed the iron-hard muscles of his chest, poised above her. The feel of him beneath her fingers was comforting solace. “Thank you, Apollo,” she murmured in a very tiny voice, her eyes large and dark like some woodland nymph, “for giving me back my life.”

  His hand moved up to softly brush her peach-bloom cheek. “You’re mine, you know, and no one else’s. I may have given you back your life, but I want it now for myself.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “It wasn’t altruism alone. I want you.” His pale eyes drifted over the fragile beauty that had haunted his dreams for months. “Will you marry me?”

  A smile lit Kitty’s face, a glow of pure happiness. “There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

  “Princess Kuzan. …” He tried the words on his tongue—this man who had never thought of marriage or, if he had, had relegated it to some vague time in the distant future. Princess Kuzan. … He liked the feel and taste and sound of it.

  Kitty’s emerald eyes shone with a deep and profound joy when she heard his words. Knowing his love matched hers, she felt a blessed peace at last in the arms of Apollo, the only true husband of her heart.

  “Princess Kuzan,” he repeated. “I like it. My wife, my soul—marry me, little kitten?”

  Kitty nodded happily, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  “Let’s see now, we have to do this right. Something old …” His tawny eyes searched the room in one swift glance.

  “Apollo—no, it’s impossible, you know that!” He was really serious, Kitty thought nervously, caught up in one of his willful, headstrong moods.

  Taking off his ring, he said, serenely unperturbed, “This will have to do. Chinese Ming should be old enough, right, darling?”

  “Apollo!”

  “If you’re upset about the ring and prefer a diamond, rest assured, dear, the emerald is only temporary.” He smiled one of those calm, patronizing smiles and, ignoring her distraught look continued, �
��Now then: something new. Hmmmmm …” The pause was only brief before his golden eyes flashed and his hand dropped gently to the small rise of Kitty’s stomach. “That,” he said, very softly, “is the newest in the world.” Kitty blushed rosy pink. “Won’t it be nice to have our child at the wedding?” he went on blandly and smiled in that unutterably devastating way that always sent shivers up Kitty’s spine. She smiled back in spite of herself. Bending toward her mouth, Apollo’s low, deep voice quietly ordered, “Tell me three’s not a crowd, but a perfect family; tell me you’re happy; tell me you love me.”

  And as his lips brushed hers, Kitty replied in blissful delight that soared over the score of problems facing their future, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  “Good” was all he said long moments later when his mind returned to the matters at hand. He lay propped on one elbow beside Kitty. “Something borrowed, next,” he declared, momentarily diverted but intent on having his way. Grasping one of the numerous pillows, he effortlessly tore off the six-inch lace border and draped it gracefully around Kitty’s shoulders. “I’ve never seen a bride yet without yards and yards of lace.” He reached for the next pillow.

  Laughing softly, Kitty stayed his hand. “This will do quite nicely. No need to tear up the entire bedroom.”

  “A woman who doesn’t like frills? What am I getting myself into? Just how bizarre are you, ma petite?”

  “Just bizarre enough to appeal to a wild man like you. And for your information, I do like frills, but under the circumstances this is enough, thank you.”

  “You’re sure?” He was sincerely earnest. He was perfectly willing to give Kitty every scrap of lace in the palace if she wanted it.

  “About the lace or your being wild?”

  “The lace, of course. I know I’m wild. And by the way, you’re right. Prim and proper people don’t appeal to me.”

  Kitty’s reserved nature, not entirely jettisoned yet, caused her to flush. “I don’t exactly know how to respond to that.”

  “Say ‘thank you.’ It’s a compliment.”

  Gathering what insouciance she had, Kitty returned the thank-you, and Apollo delighted in the naiveté that still clung to the beautiful lady at his side. Her blushes were touching in their innocence and he counted himself a very lucky man.

  “No more lace,” he went on then, “we’re agreed on that. In that case we only have the ‘something blue.’ Ah …” he said with satisfaction, his gaze lighting on the bouquet of flowers on the bedside table. One large hand closed around a clump of miniature blue iris artfully interspersed with pale pink roses. “Flowers for my bride,” he quietly said, snapping off the long stems, and one by one he laid them gently on the masses of honey-gold hair spread on the lace-covered pillow. He tucked one into a curl near Kitty’s cheek. “I’m sorry they’re not sweet peas. Tomorrow, dushka, I promise, I’ll have sweet peas planted in the greenhouses. There,” he said, precise, assured, satisfied. “Now there’s a perfect bride.”

  “Oh, Apollo.” Kitty sighed, smiling and crying at the same time. He loved her and she loved him, and in their own private way they were more man and wife than any couple married before a registrar, a priest, or the entire court.

  Then Apollo’s face became serious. As his hand brushed away Kitty’s tears, she saw an unfamiliar gravity settle in the golden eyes. “Don’t cry anymore, kitten, everything’s going to be perfect from now on. You’re my woman,” he said, his fingers playing lightly over her. “For always.” Then, taking both her hands in his, looming large above her, the dark centers of his eyes unusually intense, his low voice vibrating with feeling, he said in the tenderest way, “I, Apollo, take thee, Kitty, as my wife before God. … Say it back,” he prompted when Kitty hesitated.

  “I, Kitty, take thee, Apollo”—her voice was as soft as a rose petal—“with all my heart, to have and to hold, from this day forward.…” Kitty felt a warm enchantment, felt young and new and innocent, as if her life had only begun tonight with the man she loved. Apollo had found her, had come for her through danger and war; guards hadn’t stopped him, nor generals with proprietary designs. Neither distance nor battlefields had mattered and she knew, really knew, he loved her. That knowledge filled her with a bliss so perfect and true it was as if, for her, the world was born afresh tonight.

  “From this day forward. …” Apollo echoed, and when their lips first touched, a piercing sweetness insinuated itself like the fragrant warmth of springtime into the fullness of their hearts.

  • • •

  He had never been so careful in his life. His hands moved over Kitty like the whisper of fireflies in moonlight. She had been through so much; he never wanted her hurt again. And the presence of the child—so new and different—that, too, made him cautious. But before long in his own special way, he brought the small, soft woman beneath him to a blazing, wild excitement, and when her hands clung to his sinewed shoulders and tangled in his hair with a madness that wouldn’t end until their flesh became one, he moved his body down over hers and very slowly gave her what she wanted, what they both wanted—the bewitching deliverance memory had kept alive since the long-ago days in December.

  Lingering hours passed sleepless, playing at love, and the moon dropped low on the dawn horizon. Apollo lay sprawled on the bed, one arm gently cradling the fair woman sleeping curled against him. His eyes swept the familiar room, contentment seeping into every bone, nerve, and tissue of his body. His golden eyes swung back to gaze out the wall of windows before him, and a snow-capped panorama of mountain peaks, orchards, fields, and village lay spread before him, frosted with the tinsel of early light: all peace, rest, protected, and … his. Prince Apollo Kuzan, As-saqr As-saghir, the Falcon, was home.

  13

  The next two weeks were idyllic. They rarely saw anyone. Apollo politely refused several dinner invitations from Iskender-Khan and since the old chieftain had a very keen memory, recalling what young love was like, he didn’t impose his will as he could have. In the course of the next fortnight, Apollo and Kitty did dine at the citadel occasionally and it was plain to see, the other guests remarked, the Young Falcon had found his heart’s mate.

  They spent long blissful hours in the tumbled disarray of the enormous tortoiseshell bed. Exquisite pleasure was exchanged, savored, experienced with a new tenderness as well as a new intensity. What he asked for, she gave. What she craved, he lovingly proffered. It was a paradise of the senses.

  One morning two weeks later, Apollo excused himself for a short conference with Karaim, who had stopped by to see him. When he returned, the remainder of the day was leisurely dissipated, but that night, Kitty woke to find Apollo lying sleepless, his arms locked behind his head, his pale eyes staring unseeing at the elaborately stuccoed ceiling.

  The following day, Apollo lapsed into a retrospective musing on more than one occasion, and late that night, Kitty lay and listened to the incessant whisper of Apollo’s footsteps pacing the sitting room carpet.

  By the third day after Karaim’s appearance, Apollo’s restlessness was painfully obvious. He seemed to strain like a borzoi on a leash. Later that evening he was as sociable as a Trappist monk, Kitty ruefully noted—a troubled, reticent man, his mind obviously distracted. Before retiring for the night, they lounged in front of the fire, Kitty stroking the tense muscles in Apollo’s neck, bracing herself to ask the needed question. Everything had been so perfect, after literally years of unhappiness, that she had stubbornly resisted endangering such undiluted joy.

  When Apollo rose abruptly and strode to the window, she finally forced herself to ask, “What did Karaim say?”

  Apollo didn’t turn. He leaned his forehead against the cool window pane and said flatly, “A raid’s in the planning.” Standing motionless, his form was lost in shadow.

  “How does that concern you?”

  “I’m their leader.”

  “Is the raid necessary?”

  “It’s a way of life for a mountain warrior. Their blood and upbringing guide th
em. Too long at home, well fed, well rested, and under exercised, they begin looking for trouble and end up fighting each other.”

  “Let them go without you.”

  “I can’t,” he said with an almost helpless simplicity.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Kitty countered insistently. “If you’re their leader, you can do anything you want. There’s—”

  Apollo’s voice, carrying a resonant power, cut across her words. “It’s not that easy. Honor’s involved. Raids, warfare, fighting are a warrior’s life. The foundation for his existence, for his family’s existence, for the life of the aul. If you give that up … you relinquish being a man.”

  “It sounds positively feudal.”

  “Maybe it is, but it’s the way I’ve been raised. I’ve lived here all my life, except for the time in the Corps de Pages and during the war. I share the same blood. I’m all that they are—my great-grandfather’s prejudices, my father’s spirit, my mother’s love. I’m Karaim’s cavalry experience, the courage of my first horse, part of a brotherhood of warriors that have never been conquered. I can’t tear these things from my heart.”

  Although Apollo had lived for a time in the aristocratic milieu of Petersburg and Paris, his spirit had always remained in the mountains, and he kept with him the tough, esoteric core of the mountain world. Society, the court, even the officers’ corps were superficial accoutrements to his sense of being, his masculine ethos which had slowly and simply been instilled in him until it was as natural as breathing. And in a way, it was as important. At least, this particular raid was. Maybe later some of the others could leave without him, but this one he would command himself.