“Is that what you really want?” Kitty inquired in a low, throaty voice, her hands rediscovering the contours of his face, the bones too prominent now, the hollows too deep.
“Well …” Apollo said slowly, taking her small hand in his and pressing the palm to his lips. “Perhaps occasionally.”
“I’m amenable. I’m sure we can work out some arrangement,” Kitty purred.
“I’m sure we can,” Apollo retorted lazily, his hand drifting down to capture her chin. His mouth lowered to hers. “Now show me again,” he murmured, his fingers smoothing her waist suggestively, “just how amenable you are.”
Much later Apollo opened the door to the passageway and, standing casually naked in the doorway, shouted down the corridor, “Call the captain! I’m getting married in five minutes!”
“Are you mad?” Kitty gasped from the rumpled disarray of the bed. “It’s impossible!”
“Nothing is impossible for my father,” Apollo replied, coming back to the bed and searing himself. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your divorce, which was finalized three weeks ago.”
“Good Lord—how?”
“I had a telegram sent to Papa as we were leaving Batum for the mountains, asking him to find Peotr and expedite a divorce. I was hoping we could be married before the Cub was born, but Papa said all attempts to locate Peotr failed until he arrived in Paris a month ago. He, Suata, and the children had been delayed leaving Baku, and then spent weeks traveling through Persia and Turkey to the coast—only to lose several more weeks interred on a quarantined ship unable to embark from Constantinople.”
Kitty raised inquiring, bewildered eyes. “Suata and the children?”
“His family. A mistress in Baku, and a boy and a girl. My explanation regarding Peotr’s decision to head east was so damned weak, I thought you must have suspected something.”
“A family?” Kitty was still dazed. “Really? A family?”
“I’m sorry,” Apollo said softly. “Do you mind terribly? Papa says Peotr’s horribly guilt-ridden about leaving you behind.”
Kitty looked at the concerned tawny eyes searching her face and she lifted a finger to lightly trace the furrow on his brow. She smiled then. “How can I mind?” she said tremblingly, love shining in her eyes. “If not for Suata, I never would have seen you again.”
“Good,” Apollo said, exhaling the breath he had been holding. “The wedding, then, and the sooner the better. If you want one with all the fuss, we’ll be married again at Chambord.”
“Married?” Kitty said the word softly, as if it were a new taste to get used to.
“Of course, married. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.…” It had always been Kitty’s fondest wish. But deep down she had never really thought it would come true, with the revolutionary turmoil, and a husband already, and, if the truth be told, with Apollo’s track record with women. None of those things had strongly presaged the real possibility of marriage. “Married?” she repeated.
“Why should it seem so strange?” Taking Kitty into his arms, his face only inches away, Apollo whispered, “I love you. You’re the mother of my son.”
Kitty’s face closed in an instant. “And that’s why—”
“No, no. Oh, God. I didn’t mean that.” He shook her then, furious with himself for his unsuitable phrasing, furious with her unwarranted assumption. “Dammit,” he said grimly, “we’re getting married, whether you like it or nor. Jesus God Almighty, we’re not going to argue about that!”
“And you intend to have your way as usual,” she chided, half-provoked, half-teasing.
“Damn right, as usual.” But his mouth twitched into a faint smile. He pulled her close in his arms and they both felt an emotion deep and strong, of joy, of gladness, of spinning lightly above the earth’s mundane realms.
“This is unbelievable,” Kitty whispered, happiness possessing her soul.
“This is love,” Apollo whispered back, his arms tightening around her. “And I intend to take my duties as husband very seriously,” he breathed softly into her hair.
Suddenly laughing lightly, that low, delightful sound Apollo knew so well, Kitty asked with gentle whimsy, “Will you think it shabby, marrying a dishonored woman? Are you sure you really want to?”
“If you’ll have me,” he said in the tenderest of voices.
“Oh, I’ll have you, with pleasure,” Kitty murmured contentedly, wrapping her arms around his neck. “And if I begin to bore you?” she teased lightheartedly. “Will Karaim and Sahin neatly solve your problem?”
“I won’t be needing Karaim and Sahin,” Apollo replied huskily, smiling sardonically, an indiscreet, reckless gleam shining from his golden eyes. “I know one or two ways to keep boredom away.”
EPILOGUE
In a world tired of war, intent on forgetting sorrow and hardship after “the war to end all wars” had taken the brightest and best of every nation and snuffed out their young lives, Apollo, Kitty, the Cub, and a new baby brother and sister lived quietly happy on a thousand acres of green, green valley. Only occasionally did they venture to the bright lights and feverish pace of the French capital.
Kitty farmed as she vowed she would, and was an adoring wife and mother, as well as best friend to the golden-haired prince at her side.
Apollo played polo with a passion formerly devoted to war, looked after his business interests, cherished his wife, and contentedly watched his children grow.
Both parents were an integral part of their children’s lives, not subscribing to the traditional mode of handing offspring over to the care of servants, nannies, and governesses. Apollo became as adept at changing nappies and partaking of nursery fare and games as he’d been at handling a kinjal and Mauser in an earlier time.
Leda grew sleek in retirement, but periodically when Apollo rode her she sensed, with the special kinship between them, the restlessness of his mood, and on those days she stretched her long, muscled legs in a wild, reckless gallop through the serene countryside, helping as only she could to chase the demons away. The marches were over, the thundering charges and sounds of battle gone, but the memories were there for both of them.
Infrequently, messages quietly relayed to Apollo from the émigré committees in Paris brought a crease to his brow and necessitated a brief trip to the capital. He mostly kept these activities from Kitty, for she wouldn’t approve, and never had reconciled herself completely to the vengeance of the Adat. But Kitty was more aware than Apollo suspected of his émigré affairs, for she had her own friends among those transplanted from the old Russia. And whenever new reports and rumors came out of the Soviet Union, a nameless fear would surface to mar the perfection of Kitty’s life, for she knew Apollo was not, by nature, the kind of man who could sit passively by and watch events unfold without him.
Apollo helped the émigrés where he could with money, strategy, and influence, and so far that had been enough. He loved Kitty too much and his children were too young; he had told his colleagues from the beginning that he wasn’t available for trips into Russia—at least, not until the children were older.
NOTES
1 “Piter” translates as “St. Pete,” an affectionate nickname for St. Petersburg. To eliminate the Germanic sound, the name of the city was changed to Petrograd in August 1914, but many people continued to use the old name. (In 1924, Petrograd was given its modern name, Leningrad.)
2 Mamontov had under his command eight thousand selected cavalrymen on the best horses the Don region could provide. Besides wreaking havoc behind Red lines, Mamontov narrowly missed capturing Trotsky in Tambov, an event that would have significantly changed the course of the war. In addition, at Kozlov during the same raid the entire Red Army HQ just escaped capture at the very last moment. These two incidents underline the fine balance between victory and defeat in the long years of the Russian Civil War.
3 Thoroughbreds were an affectation of many of the young officers who wanted secondhand
“racers” for chargers, but these mounts could be dangerous unless the rider could handle his horse. An incident that took place during World War I illustrates the risk involved for an inexperienced horseman: Four subalterns had gotten themselves horses from the Moscow track and were very proud of them. One day the whole regiment charged. When in full run, they met terrific machine-gun fire and had to turn back—all but the four subalterns. The four thoroughbreds raced each other straight into the arms of the Germans. Miraculously, neither riders nor horses got so much as a scratch. The next day a German airplane dropped a message that read, “Lieutenant Count Rebinder won by two lengths, in case you had any bets on the gentlemen.”
4 In mid-October of 1919, the Reds had 160,000 infantry, 26,000 cavalry, and 4,500 machine guns. The Whites had 63,000 infantry, 48,000 cavalry, and 2,300 machine guns. The chief advantage of the Whites had always been their excellent cavalry, but by the second half of 1919 they had been greatly weakened by constant fighting.
5 The rules of dueling were prescribed by the mountain Adat: Should one man mortally offend another man, they shall each pick a trusted friend. These two shall do their utmost to bring about peace, for it is said that there is more courage in confessing an error than in fighting over it. However, should all peaceful efforts fail, at the appointed time a cloak of black felt—the burkha—shall be spread on the ground. The combatants shall stand and fight on the burkha. Shame and disgrace to the one who, retreating, steps off the felt. The combat shall continue until death or mortal injury ensues.
6 The tachanka was developed during the Russian Civil War and immediately became the most lethal weapon on the battlefield. In 1917, an ex-convict by the name of Nestor Makhno founded a gang of guerillas in the Ukraine, and it was his wont to ride about the plains of southern Russia under the black banner of anarchy, plundering and slaughtering noblemen, Jews, Communists, priests, and anyone else who incurred his displeasure. His safety lay in his mobility. His long trots, followed by a sudden appearance where he was least expected, became legendary, as did his equally rapid disappearance after one night of orgiastic drunkenness and slaughter. Makhno’s problem was how to combine the heavy rapid-fire power of a machine gun with his mobility. His idea was to mount all his machine guns on the backs of light carriages or buggies, and the result was the tachanka. With it one could gallop up to the enemy, turn around, open fire, and then gallop away, still firing, if the enemy retaliated. The tachanka was fast, light, unobtrusive, and perfectly lethal, and it soon became the main support arm of both the Red and White cavalries.
7 Due to the utter lack of passable roads, war was waged on or near the railway lines, and both armies used thousands of railway carriages for shelter.
8 “I can see you are new to the country,” said a friend to British journalist C. E. Bechhofer when he visited Russia in 1919. “For the last two years nobody worries about what will happen to him tomorrow. These are not like the old days, when you and I used to meet in Petrograd and even made appointments two or three days in advance. Never mind, you will soon get used to it. Wait ‘til you have lived under the Bolshevists, as I have! I tell you that until you have experienced Bolshevism, you don’t know what the world really contains. Fancy thinking about what will happen tomorrow! What a strange idea!” This sense of transience and fugitive morality is evoked time and time again in the memoirs and diaries of the period; between war, typhus, the bitter cold, and lack of food and water, one’s existence tomorrow was gravely uncertain.
9 There were no titles, as such, in the Red Army, and people were addressed by the rank they held at the given moment. In the interest of ease in reading, Beriozov will be designated as the general.
10 Before the October Revolution the Bolsheviks had systematically destroyed the old Imperial Army by undermining every aspect of military servitude. Once in power, they tried to confine their needs to small Red Guard units, but owing to the unreliability of these and to the rising tide of counterrevolution, they called for a new Red Army of volunteers, bringing in mainly adventurers and cutthroats of the worst variety. Therefore, Trotsky cast aside doctrine in favor of expediency. He reintroduced callup, abolished elective command, and decided to use former officers from the Imperial Army. Amid ideological and indignant protests from within the party, he reinstated 48,409 of these “specialists” in the field and another 10,339 in administration over the next two years. By the spring of 1920, over 80 percent of the Red Army’s commissions were held by ex-Imperial Army officers. The measure had its problems, and many of the professional officers who came forward at the beginning simply waited for the opportunity to take their units over to the Whites. The practice was soon remedied by strict surveillance—as well as by keeping tabs on relatives and families who could be contacted in case of desertion or treason.
11 Only a very small proportion of the urban proletariat could ride, and an even smaller proportion were accepted by the Cossacks and mountain warriors, whose allegiance to the party remained grudging at the best of times. Their loyalty was to their clans or commanders, not necessarily to either Russian army. Cavalry units did desert and change sides en masse, so the post of commisar to a squadron of Cossacks or Circassians was not, needless to say, one of the favorites.
12 Inogorodnie—“people from other towns”—was the name given to the peasants who had moved into the rich agricultural areas of the Cossack territories in the nineteenth century but who could not become members of the Cossack estate or even acquire permanent residence. They remained much poorer than the Cossacks and had to be satisfied with renting land or working as hired hands. In 1917 this nascent class struggle was exacerbated by an increased hostility between the two halves of the population, and thus the inogorodnie were ripe for Bolshevism.
13 The mountain men were reared to be warriors and nothing else. All other activities of daily existence in the mountain auls were seen to by servants or women. Owing to their extraordinary skills and bravery, even as privates in the Russian Army they did nothing but fight—they refused to be servants, drivers, or any sort of noncombatant. The only menial task they would perform was to take care of the officers’ horses. They were addressed as “riders,” not “troopers,” and in a military organization based on a tradition of corporeal punishment, no officer was allowed to raise his hand to a mountain man. Their personal sense of worth, the honor and dignity adhering to the role of warrior in the Caucasus, was carried by them everywhere. They did not bend to authority.
14 The Bolsheviks’ practice of coercing pretty women into becoming their mistresses by arresting their husbands or nearest male relatives and sentencing them to death was so common as to hardly elicit remark. When the woman interceded, she would be told that unless she cooperated, her relatives would be lost. After she cooperated, her relatives would be shot as if no agreement had been made. The outrages against women during the Russian Civil War were systematic, inclusive, and unlimited by any political or moral restraints. Women’s predators were everywhere; their sanctuaries were few.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Johnson, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into complicated machinery of the mind.
But perhaps most important … writing stories is fun.
And here’s an excerpt from
BLONDE HEAT
the tantalizing novel of passion from
SUSAN JOHNSON
available now
When Lily, Serena, and Ceci return to the small lakeside town of Ely, the three best friends are going to take the town by storm in the hottest summer of their lives …
Once Billy walked out of the bar with the Mack-haired bitch, as Lily silently referred to his partn
er, she found it easier to enjoy the rest of the evening. His disappearance resolved her dilemma—should she, shouldn’t she, would she hate herself in the morning if she did? It turned into a beautiful, hot, sweaty night of dancing, which she loved. The band was prime, she adored dancing, she had no dearth of partners, including Ceci, whom she’d danced with since the sixth grade. They were actually damned good.
Serena and Frankie left early. Surprise, surprise. But it was nice to see Serena so happy.
After turning down various offers to extend the evening, Lily and Ceci drove home alone.
“Is it just me or do you have to feel the heat before you sleep with someone?” Lily asked as they turned out of the saloon parking lot.
“Same here. Lust first, then friendship. That’s my motto.”
“There’s definitely degrees of lust, though.” Lily sighed.
“He talked about you,” Ceci said, the reason fer Lily’s sigh patently clear.
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