Sweet Love, Survive (3 page)

Peotr always treated her with courtesy and a careless affection, much as one would treat a friend’s sister or a relative. Theirs wasn’t a conjugal relationship so much as a lack of a relationship altogether, a polite fiction of a marriage. Kitty had been orphaned while still in her teens, and during the remaining two years of her minority she’d been chaperoned by a paternal aunt reluctantly dragged away from Petrograd and brought south to “do her family duty.” Kitty and her aunt had never more than courteously tolerated each other, unfamiliar as Kitty was with all the feminine graces, pastimes, and idle amusements so dear to her aunt—so dearly missed by her aunt. Kitty had been reared to take an interest in the estate and trained by her father in all aspects of stewardship; when her parents died in an accident on the Volga it was both natural and necessary for Kitty to take over management of Kuchin. As natural as becoming engaged to Peotr, whom she had known all her life.

Shortly after Kitty’s eighteenth birthday, on one of Peotr’s
leaves from the western front, they had married. Immediately after the ceremony, Kitty’s aunt, her duty discharged, had climbed into a carriage loaded with her trunks and left for Petrograd. Two days later, Peotr had returned to the war, leaving Kitty alone, responsible for running both estates.

Peotr genuinely appreciated Kitty’s administrative abilities and often praised her competence and proficiency. But neither his careless, brotherly affection nor his compliments on her management acumen were what Kitty craved from her husband. She wanted his love. Sighing quietly, Kitty gazed at her raffish, ebullient mate—who was intent at the moment on emptying a decanter of vodka—and advised herself against such folly. After all, she understood the ways of the world as well as any other gently reared female. She understood the position of women in her class. Husbands loved and adored their mistresses but they didn’t marry them; they took chaste, respectable, fresh young girls for their wives. But the converse was depressingly true … they didn’t love them.

Several more bottles were emptied and another hour elapsed before chairs scraped back and the young cavalry officers rose to their feet, bid the countess a polite, if drunken, good night, and somewhat unsteadily mounted their horses for the twelve-verst ride to Niiji.

Morosely returning to the house after seeing her husband off, Kitty dismissed the servants. It was late, almost three o’clock; the cleaning-up could wait until morning. After one last look about to see that no lamps or cigarettes were left burning, Kitty started upstairs.

She felt very much alone. Unhappy feelings resisted all practical attempts at composure. Prospects for the future with Peotr seemed bleak. Such reflections smacked of self-pity, Kitty realized, perturbed with herself, and she chastised herself for such selfish thoughts. It was mean and ungenerous to fret about her future when Peotr’s life was in mortal danger every day. In any event, with the war progressing as it was, what future did any of them have? Death, exile, servitude were the specters of the future—ominous thought. But for the moment, their district was still secure, and by busying herself
with the supervision of the estate and trying to remain optimistic her mind would be distracted from the ghastly war, from her terrible fears for Peotr’s safety. In these awful times, she could be of service to her husband at least as an estate steward if not as a wife and lover.

Then the haunting dread, which managed to slip around the most meticulously constructed mental barricades, reappeared. Dear Lord, Kitty thought helplessly, what would ultimately come of them? The area under White control diminished each month despite the summer victories of Wrangel and cavalry units such as Peotr’s. The Red armies, well supplied, freshly reinforced, were tightening the ring each day. How much longer could they be beaten back? Kitty attempted to dismiss these morbid apprehensions, not wishing to contemplate the devastation of their estates or the fearful consequences of defeat any more than she cared to recall Peotr’s instructions to her when he’d left to fight with the White Guard at the very beginning, in 1918.

“I’ve written everything down. Instructions are in a sealed folder in the study safe. Money’s deposited for you in Paris. If I’m killed and defeat appears imminent, promise me you’ll leave in time.” He had looked at her very somberly, his gypsy eyes full of sadness, and had repeated, “Promise you’ll leave.”

Kitty had nodded, forcing herself to reply, “I will,” although she had died a little then at the thought of losing Peotr and of leaving the land that had been her family’s for a thousand years.

“And just in case …” Peotr had added, leaving the sentence unfinished, handing her a vial of morphine. Stories of atrocities, of torture and rape practiced by the Red Army, hung malevolently in the silence like a gruesome corpse on a gibbet. Neither could bring themselves to comment further. Kitty had nervously taken the vial from Peotr, burying it in the depths of her vanity case. It had never been mentioned again.

All the memories and daunting anxieties for the future, freshly recalled, served to further depress Kitty’s spirit. Very near tears, she tightened her grip on the stair railing and
steadied herself by sheer willpower against the coming attack of weeping. Damn the war, she swore silently. Damn all the senseless slaughter and misery. And damn, too, all the Zadias of the world, offering their kind of shameless, unconventional love, irresistible to husbands like Peotr.

Kitty knew very well where her husband and his friends had gone. Peotr’s voice had carried quite clearly through the dining room door. At the thought of Peotr’s indifference, Kitty’s long suppressed tears suddenly spilled over, like a quicksilver break in a weakened dike. Determinedly, she dashed them away with a tiny closed fist, sniffling and blinking in a resolute effort to regain composure. Not too long ago, Kitty had promised herself never to cry again over Peotr’s inconstancy—and damn, she didn’t intend to so easily forget her resolve and become a watering pot tonight. Three years of shedding tears over the impossible dream of a loving husband were enough. Kitty had pragmatically jettisoned all but logical considerations regarding love and loving; for the future, she had intrepidly determined, all romantic illusion was to be summarily quashed.

Kitty walked into her dressing room and discarded the lilac frock, slipping back into the white, lace-trimmed batiste gown she’d so hastily discarded when Peotr and his troop had arrived. Untying the ribbon binding her hair, she padded barefoot into the adjoining bedroom and began extinguishing the lamps left burning in the large, pine-paneled room. The pungent fragrance of sweet peas wafted through the air, their redolent perfume rising like whispers of summer from several large
famille verte
bowls filled with massive bouquets of the delicate pastel blooms replenished daily from Aladino’s hothouses.

But another faint, disparate aroma drifted indistinctly to Kitty’s senses as she moved to dim the lamps. A scent not vivid enough to enter her consciousness; an odor only vaguely noted. Approaching the bed, the elusive, earthy essence, previously indistinguishable, became remarkably clear—faintly leather, vaguely horsey, and … decidedly alcoholic.

In the shadowy glow of the small brass bedside lamp Kitty saw a man sprawled facedown on her pristine white coverlet. A tunic jacket lay in a heap on her carpet, along with a glistening cartridge belt, holster, and sword strap. The officer slept with his face buried in the pillow, clad in a shirt, elkskin breeches, boots, and spurs. His tall, powerfully muscled body, revealed so blatantly beneath close-fitting elkskin and white silk, took up a great deal of space on the birchwood bed. Although most of his face was concealed in the pillow, the long, sun-streaked hair and the portion of dark, winged brow and stark cheekbone verified the usurper as Prince Apollo Kuzan,
one of her husband’s young captains. Kitty glanced quickly around the bedroom, half expecting to find Karaim and Sahin hovering in the shadows, but Apollo was alone.

It looked as if she’d be sleeping in another bedroom tonight, Kitty rapidly decided. The prince was much too large for her to move, and it was senseless to wake him simply to ask him to transfer to another room. The cavalry troop would still be at Zadia’s in the morning. Apollo could rejoin his companions after a good night’s rest. However, consideration for the delicate, embroidered counterpane Apollo was lying on induced Kitty to conclude that pulling off his boots before she left might be wise. Those wicked spurs would wreak havoc with the padded silk if he tossed and turned during the night.

One moment Kitty’s hands were grasping a grimy cavalry boot, and the following moment she was lying on her back in the center of the bed, her hips straddled by muscular, leather-clad thighs. A lifetime of training in the Caucasus Mountains, as well as the last few years of war, had instilled a finely tuned sense of survival in Apollo. He was a
very
light sleeper.

“Ah-h-h.” He relaxed the harsh grip of his fingers around Kitty’s slender throat and smiled warmly at the soft female beneath him. No enemy. The adrenaline ceased its furious pumping through his nervous system. “Forgive me,
dushka,”
he said, exhaling softly, soothing the angry red marks his fingers had left. The lean, brown hands massaged her neck lightly with apologetic caresses.

Apollo looked down on the beautiful perfumed woman lying under him, felt a fleshy female body between his legs, and the familiar scene stimulated reflexes schooled to perfect response by countless incidents in the past. To wake after drinking and find a woman in bed with him was no novelty—and his need for a woman’s warmth was achingly real after weeks of campaigning in the unpopulated steppes.

Without a word he bent to kiss her, not a gentle caress, but a barbaric kiss that shook Kitty’s spine, a dangerous kiss that ate at her lips, her tongue; teased the soft interior of her mouth; suffocated the cry of alarm which died in her throat.
His hands moved up swiftly, lost themselves in her golden tresses, and held her captive as he lowered his body. Kitty couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out; she was trapped beneath Apollo’s powerful frame while he savored her mouth with a greedy, sharp-set passion—savored her with the avid hunger of two weeks’ abstinence, his lips warm and soft, his tongue languidly probing, his sensitive hands leaving their indelible imprint, until a small flame of response, unwonted and disturbing, began to smolder in Kitty. Apollo felt it, the infinitesimal acquiescence, and he lifted his mouth to trace a path downward, lowering his head to kiss the crest of a pale, rounded breast.

Released from those dangerous, encroaching lips, Kitty cried, “Apollo! No! Please stop! Apollo … you mustn’t—” She ended in a wail, struggling to push the heavy body away.

There was amusement in his voice. “Why did you tumble into bed with me, little Marousia, if I
mustn’t?
Ah,
dushka
, hush. Hush, you always say no, at first; I know you.” He laughed softly. “No games tonight,
ma petite
, not tonight,” he murmured into the hollow beneath her ear while his hands played down her waist and over her slender hips. His fingers slid under her. Large hands grasped firm buttocks, pressing her fiercely, impatiently, against his body. Kitty gasped at the imprint of his hands burning through the sheer material of her nightdress and inadvertently whimpered in response to the urgent hardness pressing into her belly.

Catching her breath, she frantically whispered, “Apollo! Please! I implore you!” But her agitated request was strangely breathy.

Raising his head, Apollo smiled teasingly and laughed again. “You needn’t beg, little Marousia. I’m more than willing.”

Kitty was seized with both outrage and a terrible excitement. What was he talking about? Who was Marousia? Kitty nervously searched the amused face so close to hers and looked into half-closed, tawny eyes; eyes strangely opaque, dimmed by alcohol. She realized with a sudden sinking feeling that Apollo didn’t know who she was. Good God, he didn’t know!

The tearful “No!” the gentle resistance, like a scented gauntlet thrown down in the game of love, was a piquant challenge to the prince, whose brain was being forcefully guided by the tightness of his breeches. His head dipped to kiss his little Marousia again, and while his lips stifled a muffled protest, his hand slipped beneath her nightdress, gently touching the smooth flesh inside her thighs. Kitty pressed her legs together, but one strong, bronzed hand, remorseless as a steel wedge, nudged them apart and the light strokes resumed, moving slowly upward. Apollo was enjoying the feel of velvety skin, taking his time, touching, rubbing, his lean, experienced fingers fondly playing with the sensitive fragrant flesh; wooing the lady. Kitty’s brain was reeling uncontrollably; she was incapable of protest as inexplicable emotions terrifyingly mingled with guilt and common sense all cascaded headlong down a turbulent Whitewater of desire while those questing hands took liberties, leisurely explored.

Apollo’s tongue claimed her mouth without haste, alternately demanding and cajoling, lingering to experience the sweet pleasure it gave him. Then his fingers encountered damp silken hair and a great heat. Kitty moaned, a shattering surge of passion and soaring pleasure burning through her trembling body.

It appeared—the prince’s inebriated brain registered from vast experience in these matters—it appeared the lady was ready. Rolling over, he sat up to pull off his boots and breeches.

When Apollo moved away from her, Kitty was left breathless, feeling strangely bereft. But freed as she was from his disturbing embrace, in a few cool moments, commanding purpose was restored to her fevered mind.

“I’ll scream,” Kitty hissed in a stage whisper. “Every servant will be here in a minute!”

Apollo looked over his shoulder at her briefly and considered the threat for a moment. His sense of situation in these boudoir encounters flawless, he resumed unbuckling his spurs.

“So help me, I swear I’ll scream,” Kitty continued lamely, but even as she threatened, she knew she wouldn’t scream.
How could this scene possibly be explained to the servants who would come running to her rescue?