Hazard in Circassia

by V. A. Stuart

  He drew in his breath sharply. “No!” he exclaimed angrily. “You cannot marry Yusef—he is a Mohammedan and you are a Christian, Selina. A Christian marriage is what your father wanted for you and I promised him that you should have one. For pity’s sake, you—”

  “And how,” she demanded scornfully, “do you propose to keep your promise? Will you marry me to one of your sailors? Or to your young Mr Cochrane—does he feel such devotion towards you that, if you order him to, he will marry me?” Her anger flared, matching his. “I heard what my father said to you last night, Commander Phillip Hazard . . . he endeavoured to give me to you, did he not? ‘I would give her to you more gladly than to any other man living . . .’ those were his words. I heard them, so do not trouble to deny it. ‘She will make you a good and dutiful wife,’ he told you. ‘As her mother was to me.’ But you did not want me, so you gave him no answer.”

  “I told you,” Phillip began, making a great effort to control himself, “that last night I was not thinking clearly but today—”

  “Today is too late,” she said, with finality.

  “No it’s not, Selina.” He attempted to take her hand but she wrenched herself free and stood up.

  “I am sorry,” she told him, but without contrition, her eyes still blazing as if from some inner fire. “I did not intend to let you know that I overheard what my father said to you last night, what he . . . what he offered you. I had hoped it would not be necessary . . .” she backed away as Phillip also got to his feet.

  “Please, Selina . . .” she had never seemed more desirable than she did at this moment and, with the awareness of her attraction, he felt the blood pounding in his veins and was seized with a sudden longing to take her in his arms and crush the defiance out of her, with his mouth on hers and her soft, young body held against his own. But there were eyes watching them, he realized—Cochrane’s, wide with astonishment, a few yards from him; Thompson’s and Erikson’s; a dozen pairs from beside the fire, including Yusef’s—and the longing died as swiftly as it had been born. He let his arms fall to his sides and turned to meet Selina’s gaze again, keeping a tight rein on his temper. “Won’t you listen to me now?” he asked quietly. “Because I have a proposal to make to you.”

  “Of marriage?” she flung at him, her voice low. “Are you offering me marriage?”

  “Yes,” Phillip answered, “I am, Selina.”

  “So that you may keep your promise to my father?” she asked wryly. “Is that the only way you can keep it?”

  He shook his head. “You know it’s not.”

  “Yes, perhaps I do. I thought—oh, it does not matter what I thought, only that I am ashamed . . . you see, I—” The anger faded from her eyes and tears came to quench the smouldering fires of rebellion which had burned in them an instant before. She made no attempt to hide her tears but let them fall unchecked, to glisten on her smooth cheeks like raindrops in a summer storm. Phillip moved towards her but she stumbled back to her seat on the couch and let her head fall into her hands, weeping without restraint, as if all the grief she had held back for so long had been suddenly released. After a while, she raised her tear-wet face and said, very quietly, “I am honoured that you should offer me marriage, Phillip—honoured and grateful. But I—I must refuse.”

  “Why?” Phillip challenged, his throat tight as he stood looking down at her, forgetful now of those who might be watching him. “Why, Selina—why must you refuse?”

  “For many reasons,” she answered gravely. “First because I do not love you and because you do not love me . . . no”— she silenced his protest with a swift shake of the head—“that is the truth. But most important of all—because I am not the woman for you. I never could be.”

  “Should I not be the judge of that?” Phillip objected. In response to her invitation, he seated himself once more beside her, conscious of a host of conflicting emotions as she laid her hand on his arm. The attraction which she had had for him from the moment he had set eyes on her was still there, as strong and disturbing as ever, and yet . . . he captured her hand and held it, feeling its unwomanly strength and roughness against his own, and was reminded forcibly of how she had fired her long flintlock rifle the previous day. She had fired to kill, coolly and accurately, without pity and when he had sought to dissuade her, she had been surprised . . . and the thought of his mother had come, unbidden, into his mind. He had wondered what his mother’s reaction would be to a girl like Selina Gorak . . . “Well?” he prompted, with less certainty. “Should I not be the judge of whether or not you are the woman for me?”

  “You cannot know,” Selina told him. She smiled at him, the tears gone. There was a hint of mockery in her smile, as if she guessed his thoughts and understood—better than he did—his doubts and reservations where she was concerned. “I have watched you and I know. I confess there were moments when I regretted my knowledge and tried to tell myself that I was wrong . . . but I am not wrong. The fact that you have offered to marry me is proof that I am not.” She took her hand from his and flashed him another smile, this time without mockery, a frank and trusting smile, completely without coquetry. “Oh, you are a man, with red blood in your veins, and I am a woman—in other circumstances, we might have been lovers. I might have been tempted to blind myself to the truth, even to have taken advantage of your—your chivalrous offer. But not here, with my poor father dying and the war—your people’s and mine—yet to be fought to its bloody conclusion. We should have the truth between us—if that is all we may have. No”—again she silenced him, her forefinger pressed to his lips—“there is nothing you can say. We are of different worlds, Phillip Hazard. And now, if you will forgive me, I must go back to my father. I have left him for too long and—”

  “Erikson is with him,” Phillip reminded her. “He’ll call you if you are needed. Please don’t go for a minute, Selina.” He echoed her smile, feeling at ease with her for, perhaps, the first time since their return to the cave. “Will you not reconsider my proposal? Surely our worlds are not so different that they cannot be reconciled?”

  “I fear they are, Phillip. And”—her voice was sad but devoid of the bitterness it had held a little while ago—“I am truly sorry. You are kind and compassionate and you try to hide it but I know very well that I have shocked you.”

  “Shocked me? You are mistaken, you—”

  “Am I? I think not. In the world you come from women marry and bear children, they cook and sew and keep house for their husbands but they do not use a rifle or ride into bat-tle—as I have done—when their country is at war.” Selina spread her hands in a resigned gesture. “I cannot change what I am or what I have done, Phillip.”

  “I did not ask you to,” Phillip pointed out.

  “No, you did not,” she allowed. “But could you forget it?”

  Recognizing the logic of her argument, he frowned. Could he, he asked himself, in all honesty, could he?

  “You could not,” Selina answered for him. “You want, as your wife, a woman who is gentle, who loves and depends on you without question. One who is content always to stay at home, waiting for your return from whatever voyage you may be ordered to undertake or whatever war your English Navy may be engaged in, and in your absence, building her life round the children you will give her . . .”

  Phillip made a wry grimace at the image her words conjured up although, he supposed, the description could—save for the addition of charm and tolerance and a never failing sense of humour—have fitted his mother. She, heaven knew, had faced years of separation during her long marriage, but she had faced them bravely, without complaint, and had brought up her large family virtually alone, when the old Admiral, as a junior officer, had been engaged in waging war under Nelson’s and then Cochrane’s command . . . Selina’s voice broke into his thoughts, sounding suddenly strained and harsh.

  “You do not want me, Phillip. I was born in an army camp and all my life I have been with soldiers, except when I was at the convent school .
. . and even then the soldiers were seldom far away. And I—oh, don’t you see, I need a man who is prepared to take me as I am? As life has made me, if you like— a man who will love me in spite of the fact that I have killed the Muscovs and have seen them kill and rape and torture innocent people. A man who will allow me to follow him, as I have followed my father. I . . . I have such a man in mind and I—”

  “Yusef?” Phillip suggested accusingly. “Although you know that both your father and Serfir forbade it?”

  “No, not Yusef,” she denied. “I had thought of him but . . .” her expression relaxed and she went on, with a sincerity he could not doubt, “Do not concern yourself on Yusef’s account. I am, as my father said, a dutiful daughter. I will obey his wishes.”

  Perhaps the young Irish officer, of whom the Colonel had spoken, was the man she now had in mind, Phillip thought, infinitely relieved. If he was serving with General Cannon, then he would be at Eupatoria and it should not be difficult to get in touch with him . . . “What do you mean, Selina?” he asked, anxious to make sure.

  “That I will make a Christian marriage,” she answered. “Or none at all—even if I stay with Serfir’s people until the war ends. I . . . I give you my word and I will keep it, have no fear.”

  “What has caused your change of heart?” Phillip prompted curiously.

  She sighed. “You have.”

  “I have? But—”

  “I misjudged you and, perhaps, myself,” Selina admitted. “I did not expect you to offer me marriage but you did and I . . . I no longer feel a desire to—to wound or humiliate you, such as I felt last night.” It was a frank admission, made with the courageous honesty that was typical of this strange, unpredictable girl, Phillip thought, concealing his surprise. She added, at pains not to look at him. “I am truly ashamed, because I understand now why my father liked you so much and why he trusted you. He told me that you were an English gentleman and that I should be safe with you, no matter what the circumstances. He was always afraid for me, you know, my poor Papa.”

  “Yes, Selina, I know.” She had paid him an odd compliment, Phillip reflected wryly, and one that, by some standards, might be said to call his manhood into question but—aware that she had intended it as a compliment—he voiced no protest. Looking up suddenly, he saw that Yusef’s eyes were fixed on him with suspicious watchfulness and permitted himself a cynical smile. English gentleman or not, he told himself, it would be as much as his life was worth to lay a hand on Colonel Gorak’s daughter at this moment and he decided that it might be as well if Yusef could be persuaded to accompany his father to Ghelenjik next day—if only for Erikson’s sake.

  “I must go back to my father,” Selina said. She rose, shaking her head reprovingly when he endeavoured to get to his feet in order to take leave of her. “No, please—you are tired and you must rest your leg now, in preparation for tomorrow. Serfir intends to leave here soon after dawn, I think. But I—I shall see you before you go, Phillip, and we will say our farewells then.”

  She looked so lovely standing there, with the faint red glow of the firelight behind her, that Phillip was conscious of a feeling of agonized regret and with it a weakening of his resolve. But she did not linger, did not touch or even smile at him as she bade him sleep well and when he saw her, a moment or two later, bending once more over the old Colonel’s couch, he knew that—as she had said—there had been the truth between them and was thankful that he had not yielded to the temptation to call her back.

  It was a long time before he slept but when at last he did so, he slept deeply, with no dreams to trouble him and he wakened instantly, feeling refreshed and in good spirits, when a hand shook him by the shoulder.

  “Coffee, Monsieur Hazard!” Yusef’s voice said pleasantly. The Pasha’s son was smiling as he set down the earthenware drinking vessel on the edge of the couch and his dark eyes, Phillip observed, no longer held even a hint of mistrust, as they met his own. He struggled into a sitting position and, taking out his watch, looked down at the engraved cypher on it, before opening the case. “This . . . was my father’s,” Mademoiselle Sophie had written, on the card that had come with it, “I send it to you with my gratitude . . .” He snapped it shut and grinned back at Yusef in high good humour, the cares of the past few days suddenly lifted from his shoulders at the prospect of returning to his ship.

  “Plunder?” Yusef suggested, leaning over to examine the handsome timepiece and expelling his breath in a gasp when he recognized the Imperial Russian cypher. “You took it, no doubt, from a very high ranking Muscov officer?”

  There was envy in his voice, mingled with grudging admiration and Phillip shrugged, feeling his schoolboy French unequal to giving him a truthful explanation. “When do we start?” he asked, returning the watch to his pocket. “At what hour do we leave for Ghelenjik, Yusef?” He took a few sips of the hot, strong coffee and swung his legs to the ground, flexing the muscles of his heavily bandaged right leg cautiously. The leg was still a trifle stiff but gave him no pain.

  “In half an hour it will be light,” Yusef told him. “We leave then—but not for Ghelenjik. My father wishes me to tell you that—”

  “Not for Ghelenjik?” Phillip echoed, in angry dismay. “But your father promised he would go, he—”

  “He will go, Monsieur Hazard, do not fear. But our scouts have come in with word that the accursed Cossacks are out in force, searching for us. First we must deal with them”—there was a savage gleam in the young Circassian’s dark eyes and he gestured expressively to the dagger in his belt—“it will not take long. Then we will go with you to Ghelenjik. The Muscovs must not find this cave, you understand . . . but you will be quite safe here, if you wish to stay and rest your wound. My father says we will come back for you in one or perhaps two days.”

  Phillip eyed him in exasperation. “I have no wish to stay here or to rest my wound,” he began. “All I want is—”

  “Good!” Yusef exclaimed, misunderstanding him but clearly delighted by his decision not to remain in the cave—presumably on Selina’s account. “Then come with us, Monsieur Hazard. This time we will show you how we fight the thrice-damned Muscovs!”

  Phillip bit back an angry rejoinder and demanded with grim purposefulness, “Take me to His Excellency your father at once, please. I must speak to him.”

  “Certainly, if you wish,” Yusef agreed. He added, his tone faintly malicious, “He will not listen to you, if you seek to dissuade him, I warn you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Serfir, as his son had warned, refused to be dissuaded from his purpose. He was already buckling on his weapons in readiness for departure and it became evident, from the ill-concealed impatience with which he listened to Phillip’s pleas, that he had no intention of leaving for Ghelenjik without having taken all possible steps to ensure the safety of his mountain refuge. And indeed, with Colonel Gorak still clinging tenaciously to life, Phillip found it difficult, in all conscience, to advocate any course which might permit a Cossack search party to ascertain the whereabouts of his hiding-place.

  The cave obviously figured largely in the Circassian chief’s scheme of things. Its value, he explained through the medium of his son’s halting French, lay in its inaccessability and the care with which the approaches to it had been concealed, which meant that only a small guard need be left to keep watch on the place when an operation—calling for a large force—was in progress.

  “Our people need this place,” Yusef translated. “But let a Cossack patrol stumble on it—even by accident—and they will at once despatch a large raiding party to smoke us out. We dare not take the risk that they may find this cave after we have gone with you to Ghelenjik, so . . .”

  Convinced, Phillip smothered his misgivings and ceased to argue. He was rewarded by a hearty slap on the back by Yusef, who eagerly launched into details of his father’s plan of action. “We shall lead them away from this neighbourhood, you understand. First, we entice them to pursue us, then we lead the
m further astray and finally we turn on them. And, as I told you,” the Pasha’s son added, grinning gleefully at the prospect, “it will not take us long to deal with these Cossack swine. Two days, at most—you can surely allow us two days, can you not? The way we deal with them, as a rule, discourages them from sending out any more search parties for a long while. We will waste no time on this party, I promise you. But come with us, if you are up to it and then you can keep us to our promise . . . that is a fair offer, is it not?”

  Having little choice, Phillip agreed. He did not relish the prospect of two long days in the saddle but he had been prepared to endure a day and a half, in order to reach Ghelenjik, and he could not reconcile his conscience to the alternative— which would be to allow Serfir to leave without him. There would be no chance of keeping the Circassian chief to his promise if he remained, nursing his wound, in the cave. It was going to be a pretty close-run thing in any case . . . but perhaps, as a precaution, he ought to send Cochrane to Ghelenjik ahead of him, to report that Serfir was on his way.

  “Well?” Yusef demanded, noticing his hesitation. “What troubles you? Do you not wish to come with us after all?”

  “Oh, I’m coming,” Phillip assured him. “But . . .” he outlined the precaution he proposed to take and Yusef nodded approvingly. “Of course,” he answered readily. “That is an excellent suggestion. We will provide your Monsieur Cochrane with an escort and he can leave when we do . . . which should be in a few minutes.” He gestured to Serfir. “My father is losing patience. Give your orders swiftly, if you please, and join us outside. I will arrange the escort.”

  Anthony Cochrane received his new instructions with a pleasure he made no attempt to disguise. Phillip decided to send Gunner’s Mate Thompson with him and, as the two were making their brief preparations, he called Erikson over. “You’ve heard what’s afoot, Erikson?” The Norwegian seaman nodded. “Yes, sir, I heard. You are sending Mr Cochrane and the gunner’s mate back to the ship and you want me to remain here with Miss Selina and her father.”