Love Storm (3 page)

"I'm so sorry, my lord, but the fire was delightfully warm and my shoes were quite wet and—"

The prince rudely broke into this recital by grabbing her arm and propelling her briskly toward the door. "Yes, yes, well, never mind, we must hurry. They're holding the Moscow train for me.
Vite, vite,
my dear."

"Good-bye, Prince Alex," Rutledge and Mrs. Chase chorused in unison.

"Au
revoir.
I'll be gone a fortnight or so, in case my parents should inquire."

They were out the door, down the steps, and seated in the troika within a few swift moments.

"My Lord?" Zena timidly inquired as she looked up into a slightly fierce counterfance.

"Yes?" he retorted brusquely. They were quite late, he noted with annoyance, and were going to keep the Moscow train waiting longer than usual.

"I must make one stop."

"Must?"
the prince challenged, bridling at the demand.

Zena observed the flashing indignation in those steely eyes and avoided another direct confrontation with the scowling face. Keeping her lashes lowered, she said quietly, "I beg, sir, one small favor. It won't take me long."

Damn women! he thought. Always one more stop—one more piece of luggage; one more minute to adjust their coiffures. Sighing softly to himself, he reflected that the train
had
waited for him countless times before, and the little baggage
was
prettily contrite. "Very well, my dear, but do hurry. Where do you wish to go?"

Zena gave him the address, which Alex conveyed to his driver, and shortly they were in the narrow street that ran behind the mews of her aunt's town house.

"I'll be back directly, my lord. Thank you so much for stopping," Zena breathlessly declared, and quickly threw aside the fur robes and jumped out of the troika before either man could assist her.

Quietly opening the kitchen door, Zena stealthily trod the back stairway up to the third-floor nursery. The house was still; either her aunt and the general hadn't yet missed her, or, having noted her absence, were searching for her somewhere other than here—at least for now. She must rush! Bundling some of Bobby's clothes into a small blanket, she then wrapped the sleeping three-year-old in a warm down comforter, lifted him into her arms, stole silently past the room where the boy's nurse snored noisily, and retraced the rear staircase. The child slept on, undisturbed, and Zena breathed a great sigh of relief as she softly shut the kitchen door.

"Thank you for waiting, my lord," Zena said when she'd handed her burden to the waiting driver and climbed into the troika. Once she was settled, the impeccably trained Ivan impassively passed the young child back into her arms and covered them both with fur wraps.

The prince had been lightly dozing, his dark head resting against the quilted green velvet. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced down at the young girl. The golden eyes snapped open in alarm.
Good God—a child! She has a child!
Alex sat bolt upright and stared down in astonishment at the angelic face of the sleeping boy.

"I couldn't leave him behind, my lord," Zena whispered entreatingly, terror-stricken at the violent expression on the handsome face.

While a hundred alternative options, none of them pleasant, raced through the prince's stupefied mind, he quickly recovered himself and attempted to quell the young girl's obviously fearful apprehensions by mechanically replying, "No, of course not. Ah . . . well, now"—he hesitated, threw a distracted glance at the sleeping child, then continued gallantly—"
alors,
it seems we are ready. Ivan—the Moscow Vauxhall!"

The horses immediately broke into a dashing gallop.

"He's all I have in the world, my lord," Zena quietly explained to the silent, severe man beside her.

"I understand,
ma petite,"
Alex politely assured her. But,
sacré
bleu,
he observed to himself, this was decidedly
outre
passé.
Most assuredly it was unique for a streetwalker to take her brat along on a "business trip."

The dash to the station was at furious speed, the horses' breath billowing frosty white in the crisp, cold air. Ivan crooned and encouraged the beautiful bays to ever greater speed, turning Zena's cheeks rosy pink as the cold wind rushed past.

When the horses finally came to a halt at the station entrance, a street boy ran forward to relieve Ivan of the reins.

"Ivan, carry the child," the prince commanded.

All the passengers had boarded fifty minutes before, and the station platform was empty. Alex presented his arm to Zena and they began the long trek down the deserted concourse to the waiting train. Several railroad officials were drawn up before a pale-gray coach with the Kuzan motif embellishing the center panel, and all snapped to attention as the prince drew near.

"Good evening—er, good morning (for it was now past two o'clock), Your Excellency. Everything is in readiness," one of them offered.

They all discreetly averted their gaze from the child the prince's servant was carrying;,but the startling fact that the prince was traveling with a young woman and child would be common gossip throughout St. Petersburg by noon tomorrow.

"Thank you," Alex responded absently, thoroughly acquainted with traveling
en prince.
Hundreds of years of Kuzan privilege prompted this easy self-assurance.

Ivan transferred the sleeping boy to Zena.

"Have a pleasant journey, Excellency," the crowd enjoined as Alex helped Zena with the child up the stairs to the interior.

The prince smiled faintly in response, while Ivan proceeded down the line of officials and distributed the usual gratuities that warranted, in part, this preferential deference.

As the prince opened the door, Zena gasped in surprise at the magnificent decor of the railway coach. She certainly was escaping from her aunt and the old general in fine style, she ruefully noted. Three manservants, the pastry cook, and a maid stood at the ready. The room they entered was a drawing room paneled in lustrous rosewood with heavily silvered moldings and mirrored inserts. The drapes were a soft apple-green velvet, while a Persian
mil-lefleurs
carpet in tones of black, green, and gold covered the floor. Purest Louis
Quinze
furniture in embroidered cream satin was comfortably arranged throughout the car.

A barely perceptible nod from the prince brought the maid standing before them. "Put the child to bed in the small blue bedroom, Mariana, and stay with him tonight," he said.

"But, my lord . . ." Zena began.

"Yes?" he asked coolly. He was not accustomed to people querying his wishes. "Rest assured, my dear, Mariana is very good with children."

Mariana beamed happily and stretched out her arms for the child. One penetrating glance from the nobleman assured Zena that he dislike'd being crossed, and as she had no inclination to begin the journey with a scene, she quietly relinquished her young brother to the plump young maid, who walked from the room singing softly to the sleeping child.

"Now, please," Alex said affably, the issue having been resolved to his satisfaction,
"Mademoiselle
...
er
..."

"Turkuaminen—but please call me Zena, my lord."

"Ah
yes,
a delightful name and so much simpler than . . . Well, now, Zena, may I help you with your wrap and offer you a hot punch to warm yourself? Feodor, is the punch ready?"

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Fine. Bring the bowl in and leave it on the table."

"Will you need anything more, Excellency?"

"No, that will be all. You may retire for the night."

A silver punch bowl was deposited on the table and the remaining servants dismissed. Alex poured two engraved-silver cups of the steaming punch and offered one to Zena.

"I don't think I should, my lord," she equivocated softly, slightly uncomfortable alone with the prince.

"Nonsense,
mademoiselle,
you're chilled. The hot drink is a restorative; it will warm you. I insist," he persisted.

"Very well, perhaps just a little," Zena consented, deciding to herself to drink a sip or so and then sit up until they reached Moscow. It was a nine-hour run from St. Petersburg, so they should arrive shortly before noon.

Alex sank into a down-cushioned
fauteuil
across from Zena and relaxed comfortably, holding the warm cup between his hands, his long legs sprawled before him. Through half-closed eyes, he studied the young woman who sat opposite him. She certainly didn't
look
like a streetwalker—at least not a successful one. Her light silk gown of aquamarine, enlivened with green and white beading, was two or three years out of style and a bit tight across the bosom, as though it might have been a hand-me-down or picked up from a used-clothes dealer. The slippers, too, had seen better days, while the narrow string of pearls around her slender neck was very modest indeed. Perhaps the finery had been presented to her by a protector a few seasons past and no one had yet taken his place. The winsomely beautiful face, framed with the heavy masses of dark auburn hair, was taking on color as the warm punch and the crackling fire in the small porcelain stove did their work.

Silently Alex drank the delicious brew, then refilled his cup. The punch was a favorite of his, the recipe purloined years before from a centuries-old recipe of the Berlin court and composed of several score ingredients in addition to the arrack and rum. As the girl appeared increasingly nervous in the quiet atmosphere broken only by the steady rhythm of the wheels, he attempted, in a somewhat desultory fashion, to arrest her discomfort with trivial social conversation. However, when she scarcely responded to his questions or answered in ambiguous phrases, he again lapsed into his comfortable lethargy. After all, he considered tranquilly, this was strictly a business proposition for her, and as far as he was concerned, she was merely a receptacle for future physical needs, so there really was no necessity for pretense or polite flirtation or any of the normal catering civilities. So very convenient, Alex reflected gratefully.

Strangely, he felt asexual, most unusual for him in the presence of a beautiful woman; perhaps it was the childlike appearance of the delicate beauty. She couldn't weigh much over a hundred pounds, and even in heeled slippers she scarcely came to his shoulder. Young girls had never been a particular caprice of his, his preferences decidedly in the direction of full-blown, voluptuous females, tall and fleshy enough so you knew you had a woman in your arms. This pretty little charmer reminded him very emphatically, in looks and timidity, of a dainty sparrow. How the devil had she survived on the streets with that utter lack of aggressiveness so typical of the world's oldest profession? The retiring little sparrow was hardly characteristic of those who practiced the vocation she'd chosen; nevertheless, the "vulnerable innocence" she projected was vaguely attractive.

In the hushed atmosphere of the private coach with those cool golden eyes trained on her, Zena felt as though caught in a cat-and-mouse scenario. The prince's savagely handsome countenance, awesome size, arrogant composure—all served to unnerve her. She
must
stay awake until Moscow, and then she and Bobby could leave. Yet, when Alex pressed another cup of punch on her, she drank it, and though she valiantly tried to stay awake, her eyelids kept dropping shut. Two portions of the potent liquor on an all-but-empty stomach, plus the late hour, had combined to make her unable to hold them open.

After another ten minutes of surveying Zena's utter exhaustion, Alex suggested she go to bed. "
Mademoiselle,
you are all but asleep. The bedroom is the first door on the left. Please make yourself comfortable." He rose to refill his cup, then pulled Zena out of her chair and gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the bedroom.

She moved in a soporific daze born of the liquor, the late hour, and the emotional strain of the evening, vaguely recalling the way—first door on the left. Once inside the room, she hardly noticed the sumptuous appointments as she advanced directly to the carved mahogany bed and fell on it fully clothed, staying awake only long enough to pull a down counterpane over her.

The prince wasn't ready for bed yet, although it was late; he was used to later hours. He sat up for another two hours, slowly emptying the contents of the punch bowl and envisioning the myriad pleasant amusements his country estate offered. His library was amply stocked, as was his wine cellar, the hunting was superb, and, best of all, he was three hundred miles away from the brittle inanities of St. Petersburg society. The young girl he had taken along, in spite of the added baggage of her brat, for whom the servants could very easily be responsible, might prove to be a refreshing change from the hothouse variety of woman he felt surfeited with. All of her undeniable charms would no doubt help him forget the tedious boredom of fashionable society, at least for a few days.

As his thoughts wandered to contemplation of Zena's charms, his asexual mood was gradually altered. The soothing rhythm of the train, the warmth of the drawing room, the numerous cupfuls of potent liquor served to rouse his sybaritic nature, and his mind turned to more satisfying and obvious alternatives.