Silver Nights (4 page)

Adam looked in some disbelief at the closed door. Of all the stubborn, malicious, awkward old bastards! He could not possibly cool his heels in this wilderness trying to cajole that hot-tempered creature to come quietly. But he knew how she felt, had felt the same way himself twelve years ago when, under military escort, he had left his own home and all that was familiar for an unknown destiny in a place of which he had heard only stories to alarm. And Sophia Alexeyevna was going to become the wife of General, Prince Paul Dmitriev.

The image of his general rose in his mind's eye. Prince Dmitriev was a martinet, feared and loathed by those under his command. A man who exercised his power without compunction, and who heard no one's voice but his own. Yet he won battles, and so long as he did so no one questioned the gratuitous waste of life, the methods he used to send terrified troops into certain death. But Sophia Alexeyevna was to be Dmitriev's wife, Adam reminded himself, not a member of his army. He quashed the uneasy thought that the general seemed to lose wives,
rich
wives, as indifferently as he lost soldiers in the interests of glory.

The vodka bottle remained on the side table, and he helped himself, certain that sleep would not come easy this night. He was a soldier under orders. It was not a soldier's right to question those orders. This princess of the house of Golitskov was going to St. Petersburg under his escort. Apart from any other considerations, it was manifestly absurd that such as she should spend her life in this forgotten outpost of the civilized world. Once she took her rightful place in the imperial circle, she would forget quickly enough the uncivilized steppes. She would discover there were other pleasures to take the place of riding half-broken Cossack stallions and shooting rabid wolves.

He drew aside the curtain over the long French window looking out onto the garden. Was it really possible for dancing, gossip, obsession with one's wardrobe, the inevitable round of salon visiting, for these city pleasures to supersede the elemental glories of…

His musing was abruptly shattered. A figure was hastening across the dark garden, a mere shadow, yet an unmistakable shadow with that long stride, the flowing hair. Where was she going? To the stables, of course. Once astride that horse, there was no knowing where she would go.

He struggled with the bolts of the French window, cursing as his fingers slipped in his haste and bolts that had clearly not been drawn throughout the frozen winter months refused to budge. Giving up, he ran from the library and crossed the hall to wrestle with bar and bolts at the great front door. How the hell had Sophie got out of this fortress? Why were there no serfs to help? Surely they were not all permitted to retire, leaving none awake to attend to whatever needs or whims their masters might have in the night?

No one came to his assistance, but he managed to unbar and unbolt the door eventually. The night was cold and still as he stepped outside. He stood listening. A wolf howled, the wind rustled in the long grass of the steppes, a rhythmic swishing sound that was curiously menacing. It was near as bright as day under the canopy of a silver sky, so pure and bright that for a moment it took his breath away and he forgot
the urgency of his errand. Then he was running again, reaching the stables as the clatter of hooves on the cobbles signaled the departure of his quarry.

“Your pardon, lord. Can I help you?”

Adam found himself facing a giant of a man dressed in a peasant's fur-lined skin jacket and baggy linen trousers, wearing the long hair and beard of a muzhik, yet carrying himself with the power and authority of a master.

“Saddle me a horse,” Adam said shortly. “One to match the speed of that Cossack stallion.”

“We do not have another such, lord,” the giant said stolidly. “Khan is one of a kind.”

Adam faced the man squarely. The gray hair and beard were belied by the powerful physique and the sharp black eyes; the peasant dress and manner by the assured speech and the intelligence in the broad planes of his face. Adam recognized the type of man with whom he was dealing. They were a rare species, the servant who had been treated as friend, singled out for honorary membership in the ruling class. And the loyalty they gave in return was of an awesome tenacity that not even the knout or the strappado could break.

Adam spoke quietly in the clear, silent night. “If you would do service to the princess, you will find me a mount that might afford me at least the chance of coming up with her. I mean her no harm. But her world is changing and she cannot run from it.”

Boris Mikhailov examined the courtier in his lace and broadcloth, and saw the soldier. He looked into the deep-set gray eyes and saw calm purpose and no deception. He thought of the babe he had brought to Berkholzskoye, to whom he had given the allegiance he had given her father. He knew the world from which this gray-eyed man came, and he knew, as did the entire household, why he was here. Boris Mikhailov knew that his princess's destiny was not to be evaded, as he knew that until she accepted that fact only misery would lie before her.

“I will saddle Petrushka for you.” He turned to the stables. “If you'll heed the advice of one who knows, you'll let
the princess run herself out before you talk with her. The wind and the steppes have a rare calming influence.” He chuckled to himself, leading from a stable a diminutive horse that Adam recognized as one of the swift, hardy mountain horses indigenous to the Polish province of Cracow. “She's got more of her grandfather in her than of her father.”

Adam was not sure what conclusions he was supposed to draw from that piece of information, but he swung himself astride the mountain horse with a word of thanks, wondering which direction he should take across the limitless expanse of wilderness.

“Follow the north star,” the giant said over his shoulder, as he walked back to the stables. “The princess always goes north at night, to the Novgorod Rise.”

Always! Holy Mother, how often did she take to the steppes in the middle of the night? He was not dressed for riding, and it was only when he found himself alone in the majestic silence of the barren landscape that he remembered he was unarmed. It was a near-suicidal risk he was taking, to ride the Wild Lands at night without so much as a knife at his side, but having started he would not turn back.

He followed the north star for an hour, hearing the sough of the wind in the long grass, the sudden rustle of man or beast slithering out of his path, but there was no sign of the magnificent stallion and his long-haired rider until he saw in the shimmering silver light of the night sky a small hillock ahead, breaking the unrelieved flatness. Outlined against the horizon stood the Cossack horse, head lifted to the wind; motionless upon his back sat Sophia Alexeyevna, looking to the west and the Polish frontier.

His wiry mount ate up the distance between them, but as he approached, Sophie turned, grim determination etched upon her face. She held her pistol, aimed unwavering at his heart. “Do not come any closer.”

Adam drew rein. “I cannot believe that if the prince taught you to shoot he did not also teach you that one does not draw upon an unarmed man.” With quiet deliberation, he urged
his horse forward again, his eyes holding hers in a silent battle of wills.

Slowly, Sophie lowered the pistol and turned away from him, again looking out across the plain toward the west. “It is foolish to be out on the steppes unarmed,” she said, almost indifferently. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same of you,” he returned quietly. “I wished to be certain that you intended returning at some point tonight.”

That brought her head around sharply. “It is no business of yours.” The dark eyes flashed in the starlight, and he sensed the rising of that alarming temper. However, he could not allow himself to be intimidated by it.

“It
is
my business, I am afraid. Until we reach St. Petersburg, you are my responsibility. I must ensure that you come to no harm, and that you take no wild notions of escape into your head.” He was deliberately blunt, knowing that the confrontation had to come, and the sooner it was over the better.

She drew in her breath sharply, then, without warning, flicked her rein. Khan turned instantly, gathering himself for flight. Risking an ignominious tumble, Adam leaned sideways, seized the stallion's bridle above the bit with one hand, and caught the wrist of Sophie's whip hand with the other. He clung to both with grim determination, concentrating on asserting mastery over the horse, who, if he decided to take off, was far too strong to be physically hindered by a man's hand on his bridle. In such an instance, Adam would be hauled from his own mount.

The great beast trembled in the cold night air, ripples of tension running across the sinewy neck, arched and powerful. Then, as he sensed his rider's confusion and the force of the other's will, he became quite still, lowering his head to stand patiently waiting for whatever was happening to be resolved.

The swiftness of Adam's restraining movements had indeed confused Sophie, taking her off guard for the precious moment she needed to confirm her own mastery over Khan. The fingers circling her wrist were constricting—not painful,
but she could feel the force that would so easily surpass her own.

“Let go!” she said in a fierce whisper. “Damn you, let me go!” The muscles of her arm tensed as she pulled at her captive wrist; his fingers tightened over the fine bones and the pulse beat fast against his thumb.

“Peace,” he said with quiet insistence. “Be still, now. I am not enjoying this any more than you are. But we are going to be in each other's close company for upward of four weeks. I do not
wish
to be your jailer, Sophia Alexeyevna.” He waited for his words to sink in, the words that permitted no possibility of negotiation. She had no choice, and it was pointless to enter a discussion that might imply otherwise.

A tremor ran through her, reminding him of some wild animal of the steppes recognizing the inexorable approach of captivity. Then she faced him, the dark eyes inscrutable. “I imagine, Colonel, Count Danilevski, that you will obey your orders and perform your duty like the good, mindless soldier you are.” Scorn laced her voice. “
I
am not mindless, sir, and I do not easily yield up the right to direct my own affairs.”

The count silently cursed Prince Golitskov and his unorthodox methods of child rearing. Controlling his impatience and irritation with her stubborn refusal to accept the impossibility of the odds, he said neutrally, “Then we are going to have a very uncomfortable time of it, Princess.”

“So be it,” she said, her voice cold and flat.

“Are you ready to return to the house now?” he asked politely, as if she had not spoken. “Or do you wish to commune with nature a little longer?”

“I would be alone,” she said.

“In the seclusion of your bedchamber, you will be so,” he replied with the same neutral courtesy.

That tremor ran through her again, but Sophie had herself well in hand now. She was not going to be rid of him this night except behind her own door. She would bow to the inevitable for the present. She would renew her attack on her grandfather in the morning. It was inconceivable that he was
really prepared to sacrifice her upon the altar of family and imperial duty.

“If you would be so kind as to loose my horse and take your hand off mine, Count, I might be able to achieve that seclusion.”

“I do not wish to spend the night chasing you across the steppe,” he said carefully.

She gave a sharp, derisive crack of laughter. “Do you really think you could catch Khan?”

“No,” Adam said simply. “I do not. But I could keep him in sight. It strikes me as a tedious way to pass the night.” With a little shrug, as if to repeat her own “so be it,” he took his hands away.

“My thanks,” murmured Sophie, softly ironic. “So very kind of you, Count.” She swung Khan to the south, pressed gently with her heels, and the magnificent creature broke into a gallop.

Adam set Petrushka to follow, intent on keeping them in sight across the flat landscape, although he was fairly certain that Berkholzskoye was her destination. He reached the stable yard just as Boris Mikhailov had returned Khan to his stable.

“You found her, then?” he said laconically, taking Petrushka.

“I did, but I am not sure I achieved much.” Adam frowned.

“The princess doesn't take kindly to another hand on her bridle,” Boris said over his shoulder, as he led the horse away.

“Literally or figuratively?” asked Adam, following him into the warm, lamplit gloom, redolent with the rich scents of hay and horseflesh.

“Both,” replied the muzhik, chuckling. “You'll get nowhere with her if you go head to head.”

But just what choice had she left him? Adam mused irritably as he made his way back to the house.
She
had declared war, not he. He lifted the latch on the front door. It would not budge. Disbelieving, he shook it and felt the resistance of the heavy internal bar. Who the devil would have relocked
the door? Even if a servant had happened to come into the hall and discovered the open door, he or she would surely have made the logical assumption that whoever had opened it was still without. Suspicion grew, became certainty. It could only have been Sophia Alexeyevna.

All the anger and frustration he had kept tight-reined since his meeting with her that afternoon finally broke free. Of all the childish, spiteful tricks! A piece of typical female malice, secret and underhanded. The sort of trick that Eva would have played him…He hammered on the door knocker with all the force of pent-up resentment, outrage, and the absolute knowledge of the misery in store for him until this abominable mission was accomplished.

“Who is it?” A familiar voice from above broke into the trance induced by his furious thoughts and his rhythmic, remedial hammering.