Love Storm (46 page)

"Let me go and see what happened, Zena," Alistair cautioned. "In your condition it isn't wise to subject yourself to calamitous experiences."

He returned shortly. "It seems some fellow was struck down by a carriage. Quite gruesome, my dear, not a sight for you to be exposed to. Blood everywhere and the chap is unconscious. I'll take you and Bobby back home." Gently placing Zena's arms through his, they walked slowly back to her apartment. When they arrived, Zena made her excuses.

"If you don't mind, Alistair, I think I'm going to lie down and rest this afternoon. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Very well, dear," he acceded gently. "Tomorrow."

Since Alex's pictures had appeared in the paper, all the careful defenses that Zena had conscientiously constructed had come tumbling down. Four days of seeing Sasha as society's darling, four days of knowing he was near enough to see had quite effectively demolished those judiciously built bastions. They had not seen each other for more than two months, and she had been losing hold of the memories of him. Now all she wanted to do was lay her head on the bronzed skin of his chest, feel the beating of his heart and the lazy caress of his hand over her hair, feel his mouth on hers. The torment had returned full force.

She cried forlornly again for her lost love and wondered how she could ever have considered marrying Alistair no matter how gracious and kindly. After putting Bobby to sleep that night, she sat morosely near the fire and felt an uncontrollable, unforgivable moment of terror. She wondered how she was going to face the future, how she was even going to be able to go through childbirth alone. What had seemed like a rational solution six days ago— marrying Alistair—now seemed the most impossible action in the world. Do you pretend he's Sasha when you lie in his arms? Do you have Sasha's child call him Papa? Do you think of the future stretching ahead twenty years from now and see yourself still content as the Countess of Glenagle.

Oh, why, she cried, had Sasha come back into her life to

uproot her dearly purchased serenity, to upset the fragile structure of her placid friendship with Alistair? How was it possible he could still hurt her so?

What was she going to do? In three weeks she was going to have a child; she would need money eventually. She could return to her grandfather, but she didn't want to. She could petition Sasha for money, but the thought was reprehensible under the circumstances. He hadn't even bothered acknowledging her note when she had poured out her love for him. Her absence hadn't affected him at all but to allow him the freedom he had always craved. No matter how she turned the problem around, no better solution appeared. Alistair was the only reasonable option.

Zena stayed in the next morning, burrowing under the covers, unable to face the melancholy of her thoughts, unable to face her usual visit with Alistair at the park. The loss she thought she had begun to overcome was raw and bleeding again. Bobby crawled up onto the bed and spent the morning playing with his toy soldiers while Zena slipped inside her grief and pushed away the world. She would not permit herself to think. The softness and warmth of the comforting bed would saturate her and soothe the cold, sick ache in her heart. When she was strengthened, she'd face it all and decide what would be best for her to do.

Alistair waited patiently on the park bench, passing the time reading the morning paper. He wasn't surprised Zena hadn't arrived. She had appeared more distraught than usual yesterday. The past few days he had noted an increased agitation, a vacillating gloom that he concluded was the result of her advanced pregnancy. It was only to be expected that a young female alone in the world should experience tremors of trepidation and anxiety as her time drew near, and the harrowing experience with the Turk had taken its toll. Alistair decided he'd drop by to visit this afternoon if she didn't come to the park. He leisurely finished reading the paper, the local news headlined by the accident that had occurred across the street yesterday. Apparently the victim of the crash was some Russian prince. The report stated the prince had regained consciousness and was resting at his villa on the sea. Those Russians were always of a volatile, wild character. Imagine, attempting to cross such a busy street in the middle of the thoroughfare.

Rising from his idle perusal of the news, the Earl of Glenagle casually pitched the paper into the waste receptacle and continued on his way home. I wonder if Zena knows this Russian, the earl mused vaguely, then cast the thought aside. Impossible! She was quite different from the general run of headstrong, hard-gambling, party-going Russian aristocrats who dwelt in Nice. She was really very subdued. He wondered if her mother could have been European. He must ask her sometime.

The earl delivered a gorgeous bouquet of white roses that afternoon when he visited Zena. She thanked him gratefully and explained she hadn't felt well enough that day to venture outside.

"Do you think you should have a doctor call?" the earl asked anxiously, concerned with the new pallor of Zena's complexion.

Zena demurred tactfully, unable to account for the actual reason.

After Zena had made tea, the earl chatted congenially about the society events he had read of in the paper. Seeing that society news was apparently not brightening her spirits, he thought perhaps she might enjoy hearing about one of her fellow countrymen.

"By the way," he said, holding his cup out to be refilled, "the chap in the accident yesterday was a Russian too. Wonder if you might have heard of him. Fellow by the name of Kuzan, a prince, I believe."

The blue and white faience teapot dropped from Zena's grip, crashing into the plate of teacakes, spilling sweet, brown liquid across the table. Zena turned a deadly white and crumpled to the floor.

Impeded by the table between them, Alistair was unable to break her fall. Lunging from his chair, he knelt fearfully by the still, pale form, patting her hand ineffectually for a moment before running downstairs and demanding the concierge send for a doctor.

Rushing back to the apartment, he gently lifted Zena onto her bed. She was unbelievably frail despite the added weight of the baby, much too delicate, it seemed, to be able to sustain the burden of another life. Pressing a damp towel on her forehead, he saw her eyes flutter. Wiping her cheeks with the cool cloth, he was relieved to look into the dark blue eyes so familiar to him.

"How are you, dear? I've sent for a doctor. You should have had one immediately this morning. Don't talk, just rest. He'll be here soon."

"Is Sasha alive?" she whispered.

"Who?" Alistair inquired bewildered.

"The prince—is he alive?" she repeated softly.

"Oh, the accident.
That
prince. Yes, he's alive, broken bones, that's all."

Zena closed her eyes in relief.

The earl was too polite to demand an explanation of such an odd question, although curiosity consumed him. After the doctor left, Alistair insisted Zena remain in bed.

"Very well, Alistair, but I'm feeling quite well again, really. You needn't be concerned."

After a half hour of persistent placating, she finally persuaded him to leave.

Her spirits were tumultuously happy. The shock of thinking Sasha dead had convinced her that her love for him was as strong as ever. She smiled sadly to herself while she reflected what a foolish thing pride was, and all the other shams like self-pity, hatred, vengeance, which had almost robbed life of the only thing she really wanted. What nonsense was pride! She wanted to see Sasha and be with him. She wanted at least another chance to talk to him again. If he didn't want her, then she would decide what she'd do with her life. But she was a silly fool to sit here and mope without trying even once to win Sasha back.

Disregarding Alistair's admonitions, Zena threw back the covers and quickly dressed in a cerulean blue dress, one of Sasha's favorite frocks. He had teased her that she looked like a budding cornflower in it. It was soft silk, fluttering ruffles, and ribbons.

Calling for a carriage, she and Bobby set out. Apprehension and qualms of misgiving stirred within her. You're half Daghestani, she bolstered her failing courage, and they fear no one. All he could do was send her away, and she was already living apart from him.

An immaculately raked carriage drive curved up to a refined Moorish palace situated superbly on the crest of a rocky cliff. The sun was setting low over the Mediterranean, casting mauve and golden rays over the azure sea.

Descending from the carriage, she nervously commanded it to wait. Despite her unease, she would not give way to the weakness that threatened to overwhelm her. She kept her mind steadily fixed on the object she had in view—to see Sasha one more time. Taking Bobby's hand in hers, Zena walked up to the brass-studded wooden door and struck the knocker. She was admitted to the foyer, where a forbidding butler looked down at her from a great height and said haughtily, "Yes,
madame?"

"I'd like to see Sasha . . . er . . . Prince Alexander."

"The prince is not home to visitors,
madame."

"Perhaps if you just brought a message to him," she pleaded.

"I'm afraid that's impossible. He can't be disturbed. If you could return,
madame,
at some future date.
..."

"I want to see him today," she stubbornly insisted, her temper rising at the overbearing indifference of the man.

The butler had learned long ago that the prince rarely wished to be disturbed by females of any kind, particularly—and his eyes swept Zena's protruding belly sardonically—pregnant females. As majordomo he was there to discourage just that sort of distraught individual. The prince demanded privacy in his own home.

"Madame, I'm very sorry." His chill murmur was quelling.

Tears of frustration stung Zena's eyes. Bobby tugged on her hand and piped up sweetly, "See Papa, me see Papa!" he had understood the mission they were on.

The butler was far too well trained to display emotion, but he was definitely staggered. Good God! the august butler thought. Papa! At all costs he must see them out! The prince would definitely not want to receive these visitors. Firmly taking Zena's elbow, the stately, dutiful servant began guiding her to the door.

A light footfall was heard on the stairs rising to the first floor, and a voice exclaimed, "The little prince!"

All three figures turned to see Alex's valet, Feodor, descending the marble staircase. Bobby loosened his grip on Zena's hand and bounded toward his old friend.

"It's all right, Harrison," Feodor explained. "In fact, it's perfect. This is Zena, Harrison, Princess Kuzan."

The butler was profuse in his apologies. The entire staff knew of the prince's frantic search for his wife, but gossip had failed to note the fact that she was pregnant and had another child. He was contrite and humble over his mistake.

"The Batiushka only woke from his sedative,
madame,"
Feodor said. "Please come up."

Zena followed him up the stairs and down a long corridor to a room on the south side of the palace commanding a magnificent view of the sea. Zena stood in the open doorway with Bobby while Feodor diplomatically withdrew.

Alex lay in an austere mahogany bed, the entire room sparsely furnished in a very masculine, severe Chippendale
Chinoiserie
style. It was a thoroughly incongruous sight in the ornate and filigreed Moorish palace. He looked splendidly well despite the bandages—very bronzed against the white linen, his dark hair brushed back, his eyes closed as he rested against the bolster of pillows. Glass doors were open onto a balcony overlooking the blue Mediterranean. The lengthening beams of the late afternoon sun streamed in, lighting the room with a diffuse golden glow.

"May I come in?" Zena asked softly.

At the sound of her voice Alex's eyes snapped toward the door, and the melancholy vanished from his expression. His face lit into his old, warm, inviting smile that had always struck Zena to the soul. His beautiful golden eyes met hers, and Zena almost cried aloud. His first thought as he saw her framed in the doorway was that she was more beautiful than he had remembered. Her memory had lived in his every waking moment despite his ruthless attempt to dispel and crush that tormented memory.

"Darling!" His eyes blazed with joy; then he fell silent, uncertain for the first time in his life of his reception by a woman.

Still standing at the door, Zena began, stammering, "Sasha, if. . . if. . . you want me, well, it won't matter . . ."
"Ifl
want
you, child," Alex said somewhat unsteadily.