Seized by Love (2 page)

Karelia Province Grand
Duchy of Finland
April 1874

The last goblet had, long
before, been flung aside in toast and joined the brilliant display of broken
crystal gracing the stone hearth. There, the litter of crystalline shards
reflected and transformed the firelight into a dazzling, fluttering
phosphorescence. A few surviving candles guttered low in their branches while
the shattered stumps of others bore mute evidence of Prince Nikolai's
capricious fancy for a contest of marksmanship several hours earlier.

Now, on a low stage at one
end of the large room, a weary group of musicians continued playing wild,
haunting Gypsy music, while nervously watching the brooding face of their
master, the young prince. They hoped to successfully anticipate or assuage
Prince Kuzan's mercurial moods and thus avoid, at least this night, any more
dangerous whims.

At times like these, when
the tedium of the world was too much with him, the Prince retired to his
hunting lodge to brood upon the melancholy inequities.

Nikki's hunting lodge was a
timber and stone villa constructed by local artisans in the early years of the
seventeenth century. A Swedish noble had this retreat built for himself,
situating it prettily on a rocky rise in a pine forest. The terraced gardens,
in the Italian manner, were added by a later heir after a tour of Italy. With
the advent of the romantic English garden, yet another descendant landscaped
acres and acres of forest, transforming the wilderness with an extravagant hand
and the toil of hundreds of laborers over ten years into charming green alleys,
wide vistas of rolling terrain, crowning the elaborate scheme dramatically with
a Greek temple perched on a distant grassy knoll. The local stonemasons had
erected a reasonable facsimile in rough-hewn granite, a rustic but altogether
lovely interpretation symptomatic of the then-fashionable rage devoted to
whimsical follies.

Although the high
Renaissance had already come and gone when the main structure had been built,
none of the lighter attributes characteristic of Renaissance architecture had
filtered up north. The villa itself retained an overwhelming medieval
character; stone turrets crowned with peaked tile roofs punctuated the walls,
bottle mullioned windows caught and reflected the northern sun, enormous
stonework on the ground floor supported the heavy timber walls of the second
story. In a lavish display of his wealth, the Swedish aristocrat had the walls
pierced wherever possible with windows, lighting the interior with dazzling
color through the multicolored panes.

Tonight Prince Nikolai
Mikhailovich Kuzan had been entertaining a small party of fellow officers from
his Guards Regiment. After participating in the April sixth fete-day of the
Chevaliers Gardes with its day-long riding exhibition and religious
celebrations, they had felt the need for a holiday and Nikki had invited them
to his lodge for a fortnight of hunting. However, in the eight days elapsed,
the quarry had been confined exclusively to the two-legged female variety,
since Nikolai had thoughtfully imported a bevy of Gypsy wenches to provide
diversion.

Now, as morning approached,
men and women lay entwined in each other's arms about the room, some on pillows
scattered on the Tabriz carpet, others on the colorful divans. One couple, in
what to a less dissipated audience would be a tasteless lack of decorum, was
busy on top of the dining table; all were in diverse states of drunken abandon
and dishabille.

Tanya, a beautiful young
Gypsy girl, was swaying in a provocative, sensual dance before Nikki's sprawled
form. One of his hands lightly held a small flask of brandy on his powerful
chest. The other hand, lying carelessly on the chair arm, would occasionally
move listlessly to the nearby table and turn over another card in the game of
solitaire he was indifferently and infrequently pursuing while regarding Tanya,
who skillfully undulated to the wild, frenzied tempo. Through narrowed tawny
eyes, Nikki watched her tantalize him. Her graceful young body, half revealed
in a scanty blouse and silken skirt, twirled close, then retreated, displaying
a wanton invitation from brilliant dark eyes. The firelight caught the coruscation
of golden highlights from the heavy hoops in her ears and from the multitude of
sparkling necklaces twined round her slender neck and swaying against her
trembling half-naked breasts.

Behind the curtain leading
to the kitchen corridor, the youngest footman whispered to an old retainer
familiar with the idiosyncrasies of his new employer. "Is the Prince
always so surly and moody?"

Igor admitted that the
Prince was not in the best of spirits. "The Kuzans have a devilish
temperament, some-times little better than savages," the old servant
explained without malice, having happily served the household for decades.
"They like fast horses, bad women, and good wine. Between father and son,
they have developed one of the finest studs in the Empire, crossing English
mares with bloodstock from the Orlov-Rostopchin and the Provalsky stud. They
also breed Stryelet stock, which are even more rare. Their horses are
world-renowned. The young Prince doesn't do so badly in the breeding department
either." The old man chuckled. "Like father, like son, they
say," he added softly, remembering the reckless pace the old Prince
Mikhail had set in his youth before marriage to a young Gypsy girl had tamed
his ways.

"More brandy!"
The roar from the hall beyond echoed as Prince Kuzan impatiently banged on the
table. The old man lifted his eyebrows and shrugged in cheerful resignation.
Both servants hurried to obey the command.

Tanya's hips still moved to
the hypnotic tempo. Her dance was intended to arouse, to primitively and seductively
provoke the animal mating instinct.

It did and he was.

With a casual wave of his
lace-covered hand, Nikolai abruptly dismissed the musicians and picked up his
fresh bottle of brandy. Then he lunged to his feet and, as the music slowed to
a stop, lifted her and disappeared into a curtained alcove.

The musicians discreetly
stepped over the drunken bodies, avoiding, when possible, the broken glassware
and china littering the floor. As they edged cautiously through the elaborately
carved double doors, never certain of their safe departure from the eccentric
young Prince and his raucous group of intimates until well out of sight and
sound, their exit was hastened by a wine bottle thrown violently against the
doorjamb, crashing into a thousand fragments and narrowly missing the last
violinist. Some drunken mu-sic-lover, no doubt, annoyed at the termination of
the pleasant background accompaniment to his lovemaking.

Scurrying through the
narrow, dimly lit hallway and foyer out into the relative security and peace of
the deep porch of the hunting lodge, the musicians exhaled a collective sigh of
relief.

"Heaven help the
servants in the morning who have to attend young Prince Kuzan. There's going to
be hell to pay for his pounding head and thick tongue. Praise God, we won't see
him again until evening, when the worst of his headache is gone." The
leader of the musicians sighed.

"Maybe the pain of a
throbbing head might make him more docile or at least more silent. I've never
seen Nikolai so sullen as tonight. He must be tiring of his newest Gypsy bed
warmer," the second violinist said wearily.

"Well, thank sweet
Jesus, we'll be out of his range at least until tonight. Maybe Tanya will be
able to soothe the dark mood he's in. Let's go to sleep, although the night is
practically over," the youngest member of the troupe suggested.

In the alcove, Nikki
casually dumped the girl onto the couch, thus freeing his hand to tip the
brandy bottle to his mouth. The liquor flowed warmly down his throat. Thank God
for brandy, he thought. It made life more bearable as it blurred the morbid
edges of reality.

Sinking down heavily next
to the recumbent girl, Nikki set the brandy bottle carefully on the floor and
began to pull off his hunting boots. Tanya softly crept up into one corner of
the large pillow-strewn couch and leaned back against the tapestry-hung wall,
watching him with her dark eyes.

"I'm not in the
mood," she said, pouting.

Nikki barely glanced at the
sultry woman nestled against the wall, and continued without a pause to divest
himself of his garments.

"You'd better get in
the mood," he growled.

A thrill coursed through
the black-haired beauty and passion blazed into her dark eyes. Tanya, although
only seventeen, had long ago learned to accommodate men's varying tastes in
bed, but she preferred violence with passion; hostility intoxicated her.

"I won't. I'm
tired," her petulant tone persisted as she swung her long, shapely legs
over the edge of the bed and began to rise.

The Prince's bare,
powerfully muscled arm shot out and grabbed a handful of her satiny black
curls, yanking her back onto the bed, pulling her down until she looked up into
his golden eyes snapping with irritation.

"Bitch!" he
whispered, well aware of Tanya's sexual preferences by now. But, having watched
her enticing dances all evening, he wasn't in a temper to be toyed with.

"You're always playing
games, aren't you? However, tonight, my sweet little whore, you find me in a
suitably black humor to accommodate your preferences. If it's violence you want,
I can be obliging."

Tanya's hand lashed out,
long nails poised to rake Nikki's face. He caught her hand in midair, his
reflexes still relatively sure despite the large amount of alcohol consumed. He
crushed her wrist in a savage grip and she winced in pain—or was it pleasure?
He couldn't tell.

As he held her, Tanya's
little pink tongue appeared and ran provocatively over her full red lower lip,
her dark eyes began to moisten, her breathing became ragged.

"Ah, my dear, you
do
like
pain. I should introduce you to Prince Gorcheviv. He has a penchant
for whips."

The Gypsy girl's
half-closed lids lifted and she moaned sensuously.

"Damn!" He
surveyed her through half-narrowed eyes. "How can I force a woman as
aroused as you?"

Roughly he pushed her down
into the pillows, spreading her legs with his knees, pulling her nipples up and
away from her necklaces into hard points of desire. Her body writhed beneath
his coercion and her teeth bit into her full lower lip to keep from crying out
in joy. She held her arms out wide, reaching for something to cling to as he
pushed her skirt above her waist. Then, forcing her wider, he fiercely drove
into her melting body, each violent thrust releasing a part of his frustration,
each powerful surge a mindless hope for temporary oblivion. She began
whimpering as he moved faster into her, his unbridled penetration and
withdrawal savage, brutal. He didn't notice his back was running with blood
where Tanya had run her sharp nails over the hard muscles that now moved
rhythmically above her.

Much later, Nikolai
abruptly woke from his sleep. The slightest sound was enough to instantly
arouse him after many campaigns on the eastern frontiers, where the merest
noise could be warning of danger from a stealthy Kirgiz intent on dealing a
slashing
hallal.
Without moving, he slowly opened his eyes and through
heavy black lashes swept a glance about the alcove. Tanya was searching through
his clothes, which lay discarded on the floor. Looking for roubles, no doubt,
he thought, dropping back to sleep. Prince Kuzan was extremely charitable to
his light o'loves, showering them with gifts, jewelry, furs, as well as money,
with a careless generosity. Greedy little bitch, he later reflected sleepily
but not unkindly, for, after all, Tanya had to think of her future; her
youthful charms would quickly fade.

By midafternoon Nikolai's
fractious, irascible temper and pounding head were somewhat subdued; his two
cohorts in arms, Major Cernov and Captain Illyich, and his young cousin Aleksei
relaxed in the solace of a small clearing in the birchwoods. There they lay
warmed by the April sun, calmed by the peacefulness of their surroundings, free
from the chattering, volatile young Gypsy girls who had been discourteously
dispatched and told to remain out of sight until called for.

Nikki lay sprawled at ease
on the soft green grass, casually attired in superbly fitted cavalry boots,
buckskins, and an embroidered moujik shirt open at the throat. His hands were
clasped behind his neck as he squinted slightly into the bright sun of a gentle
spring day—a poetic, storybook day redolent of bursting buds, fresh turned
earth, and fertility.

Nikolai Mikhailovich Kuzan
was a giant of a man. His mother's long-ago heritage from the Caucasus
highlands was proclaimed in his swarthy complexion, heavy dark hair, prominent
cheekbones, and aquiline profile. From his father's White Russian roots he had
inherited not only his tremendous physique but also his enchanting tawny,
liquid eyes, the pupils so large and dark as to appear black; magnificent,
beautiful eyes brooding beneath heavy brows. The same kind of eyes that gazed
out from opulent, exotically gorgeous Byzantine icons for eight hundred years;
arrest-ingly splendid eyes that could be piercingly alert, indolently
shuttered, or benignly calm. His harsh-featured face was softened by those
redeeming eyes and by a sensitive mouth, now pursed in discontent.