Golden Paradise

Chapter Three

In the morning the Prince decided against an immediate return to Tiflis. Instead he sent his troopers ahead and pursued idyllic leisured activities with the Countess for several additional days. And when they finally chose to travel north, the Countess's wardrobe having been nastily restored by Aleksandropol's only French dressmaker still in residence, the two-day journey stretched into a number of more delightfully lazy days.

Prince Bariatinsky's household, of course, had been on the alert for his appearance since his men had arrived days before, so when the Prince and Countess drew up to the grand marble staircase of his palace overlooking Tiflis, his entire staff was at attention in the drive while two women-one elderly, the other young-stood on the first broad landing waiting their arrival.

His aunt lived with him, so her appearance was expected, but the younger woman Stefan recognized with a start. What was Nadejda doing two thousand miles from Saint Petersburg? He absorbed the shock with no visible change in his expression and bestowed casual greetings on the servants as he helped Lisaveta dismount. After introducing her to his majordomo, who greeted her with a proper bow and a friendly smile, Stefan escorted Lisaveta up the rank of white marble stairs to the broad balustraded landing where the two women waited.

Lisaveta assumed the small, trim, grey-haired woman was Stefan's aunt. He'd assured her Militza would be pleased to have her as a guest before she resumed her journey home to her estate near Rostov. But he hadn't mentioned anyone else. And while Stefan's aunt was smiling, the pretty blonde at her side was not. Was the scowling young lady a niece constrained from her own amusements to wait here and greet her uncle? Or simply some family friend, sulky by nature? She would soon find out since Stefan was about to introduce her.

With his hand lightly holding her elbow, Stefan moved with Lisaveta the short distance across the polished marble landing to where the two ladies stood. "Countess Lazaroff," he said, his voice touched with his usual nonchalance, "I'd like you to meet my Aunt Militza and my-" He hesitated the smallest instant.

"Fiancée," the fair-haired woman interjected firmly, her smile tight.

"Princess Nadejda Taneiev," he said, as though he hadn't spent the last eight days in bed with Lisaveta, "may I present the Countess Lisaveta Lazaroff."

"You wouldn't be Felix's daughter?" Militza asked, ignoring Nadejda's anger and Lisaveta's embarrassment, her casual inquiry similar in tone to her nephew's when introducing his newest paramour to his fiancée.

"Yes," Lisaveta and Stefan answered simultaneously, she in nervous response, he because he found himself strangely concerned his aunt like her.

"I knew your father years ago. He was a delightful dancer."

Lisaveta couldn't help but smile, even though her temper was beginning to rise at Stefan's deceit or omission or whatever word best described his failure to mention he was engaged. Not that she was some naive adolescent who expected an offer of marriage after their intimacy-after all she had wanted him as much, if not more. But she expected a certain degree of honesty. She didn't realize that showed her naïveté. Honesty was hardly an essential in matters of amour; play words were more useful, love words, pretty turns of phrase universally applied.

"I didn't know he danced well," she replied, admiring Stefan's aunt's warm smile. So her father's accomplishments weren't confined to scholarly pursuits; this new image was pleasant. "I never saw him dance," she added.

"He was a favorite of all the ladies before your mama decided she wanted him. Did you meet Stefan at Maribelle?" Lisaveta's mother had once owned an estate by that name near Aleksandropol.

"Actually, no. Maman sold it before she died. I met Stefan on the plain between Kars and Aleksandropol." Lisaveta paused, not knowing where or how to begin.

"She was abducted by the Bazhis," Stefan interjected. "We had given chase-"

"And you rescued her," Nadejda said in a malevolent tone.

At Nadejda's vitriolic sarcasm, Stefan's gaze swung from his aunt to his fiancée.

Despite her own fury at Stefan's oversight in informing her of his fiancée, Lisaveta was still deeply grateful to him. Whatever her reservations concerning his character, he had rescued her. "He saved my life," she said calmly.

"And you naturally rewarded him."

"Nadejda," Stefan said. The single word was an order to silence.

"Why don't we go up to the house for tea?" Militza interjected, shamelessly pleased Stefan had reprimanded his fiancée. She'd been forced to endure the girl's uncharitable company for Nadejda had unexpectedly arrived in Tiflis with her parents on a visit to the Viceroy.

Felix Lazaroff's daughter was very beautiful, Militza thought, although not to Stefan's usual taste in women, which gravitated toward glamorous blondes. This girl was refined and delicate, her features touched with the ingenue, although her height was a shade above the average. Stefan usually preferred small women. How interesting, she speculated. As interesting as his cryptic note mentioning he might bring home a guest. Haci had defined the word guest for her, but more interesting yet was the fact Stefan invited the Countess to his home. A staggering first.

Months ago she'd watched with constrained silence as Stefan coldly selected a fiancée, appalled at his final choice. Nadejda was absolutely without endearing qualities. She was certainly striking, if one favored cool, fair-haired beauties from wealthy, powerfully connected families. But Stefan could have had anyone. When she'd said as much to him rather wrath-fully when he'd come back to Tiflis engaged, he'd only shrugged and said, not in explanation but in simple statement, "I only had a week furlough."

Lisaveta was desperately trying to formulate a suitable reply to Militza's suggestion of tea, for she wanted nothing less than to have to socialize with Stefan's malicious fiancée, when Stefan interposed. "Perhaps we could wash up first," he said, stalling for time, thinking hell and damnation, what bloody bad luck. Nadejda should have been in Saint Petersburg, two thousand miles away. "The roads are awash with dust this time of year," he added.

Thank you, Lisaveta thought gratefully, but then Stefan was adroit at lying, wasn't he, she decided, his "surprise" fiancée glaring at her. All she wanted to do was get away from this uncomfortable situation, find a coach traveling north very soon and leave Stefan Bariatinsky to the mercy of his fiancée.

Since they had dallied on the outskirts of Tiflis the previous night, reluctant to bring their passionate holiday to an end, neither Stefan nor Lisaveta was in fact at all begrimed by travel. Stefan's white Chevalier Gardes uniform was pristine while Lisaveta's simple white pique summer gown was bandbox fresh.

Ignoring the graphic evidence before her eyes, Aunt Militza said with a practiced courtesy, "Of course, you must rinse off the dust of your journey. We'll see you on the terrace in half an hour." This latter statement was delivered in a tone very like Stefan's when issuing orders to his men, Lisaveta thought, having witnessed the departure of his troop from Aleksandropol.

And surprisingly Stefan deferred with a nod of acknowledgement. There was an authority higher than his, Lisaveta realized, or at least in some circumstances there was. Or at least for trivialities like teatime there was.

"Come, Nadejda," Militza declared firmly, "you can help me with tea."

Nadejda hesitated briefly, her eyes moving dismissively over Lisaveta to rest on Stefan. She was weighing the risks of refusing when her violet shaded eyes met forcibly with Stefan's dark gaze.

"We'll be along directly," he said, without modulation, and it was that precise lack of inflection perhaps, the utter quiet of his tone, that decided her. After all, Stefan Bariatinsky was the catch not only of this season but of ten seasons past, as well, and she had been raised to be a practical woman.

For a moment after the two women departed, the only sound was the whisper of the wind through the gigantic cypress trees lining the ornate staircase. Grafted from those planted by Catherine the Great during her triumphant tour through the Crimea nearly a century before, they dwarfed even the magnificent villa on the crest of the hill.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lisaveta said, speaking first, her voice a low, intense, restrained resonance.

She was tanned, Stefan thought, gazing down at her. The crisp white pique must heighten the color of her sun-kissed skin. He hadn't noticed before. And the slight breeze was blowing tendrils of her chestnut hair across her bare shoulders. Silk on silk, he mused.

"Why?" she repeated, refocusing his attention from more pleasant thoughts.

"I didn't think it mattered," he simply said, which was the truth. His fiancée was quite separate from his love life.

"Didn't matter?" Lisaveta's golden eyes were stormy.

He wanted to say the information was extraneous to their relationship but he wasn't that crudely impolite. Instead he said, "The opportunity didn't arise."

"In eight days?"

He sighed then, a faint, almost negligible sigh encompassing a vast experience with irate women and unanswerable questions. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

She looked at him with scorn and anger and incredulity. After eight days of unremitting passion, after eight days of laughter and conversation, after nights when neither had slept because their need for each other was too intense, that was all… "You're sorry"! For what? That I found out?"

He was primarily sorry Nadejda was in Tiflis, but that too would have been unprincipled to admit, so he opted for a less callous reply. "I should have told you. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you should have."

"Would it have mattered?" he asked then very quietly, touching her arm lightly in an intimate, familiar caress.

His low voice and the gentle intimacy of his fingertips on her skin sent a shiver of warm response coursing through her body. "Don't touch me," Lisaveta said in a tone meant to be harshly emphatic but hushed instead and much too soft.

"She doesn't matter." Stefan's voice too was hushed, and he moved a step nearer.

"She should."

He only shrugged, the convoluted reasons for his choice of fiancée beyond brief or rational explanation. "Don't be angry." His voice was husky, his dark eyes much too close now, just as his powerful body was. Lisaveta moved a step back.

"They might be watching."

"We're only talking."

"I'm not as blasé as you."

"I'll teach you." He smiled then and added in a hushed undertone, "And you can teach me more of Hafiz."

She tried to keep from smiling, she tried to remind herself he was an unprincipled libertine and much too beautiful for his own good. She reminded herself his reputation was legendary, she shouldn't respond to his warm suggestive smile. But he winked at her, his lush, dark lashes falling and rising in a lazy indolent gesture. "We're only on poem nineteen."

All the heated nights and days of lovemaking came pouring back into her memory… with his teasing smile like now, and his teasing hands and lips and expertise. She couldn't resist smiling back. "Scoundrel."

"Never," he said. "A moralist's term, and I didn't hear you complain before."

"I hadn't met your fiancée before."

"My palace has two hundred and eighteen rooms."

"You're much too pragmatic."

"A soldier's training. Forgive me, dushka…and forgive her intrusion. I'm truly sorry." He brushed his finger gently along the curve of her shoulder. "I hope she won't upset you. I'd like you to stay and visit." His voice was as warmly coaxing as his smile. "You'll like Militza. She's outspoken but delightful, and I've a month's leave."

This was the first he'd mentioned her staying or the length of his furlough. Perhaps he'd assumed she'd stay, perhaps women always stayed as long as he wished. After the paradise of the past eight days, she understood why that might happen. However, she too was pragmatic and much too sensible to allow herself to become simply another of the parade of women passing through Prince Stefan Bariatinsky's life. "Thank you, but no. I must return home to my estate as soon as possible."

"Stay a few days."

She shook her head.

He gazed at her, his expression unreadable. "You won't?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I've things to do."

"Even though I risked my life to save you from the Turks?"

She smiled. "Does that work often?"

He grinned. "Every time."

"Except one."

"Truly?"

She nodded. "Truly."

"You'll stay until tomorrow, won't you?" His voice was as courteous as a young boy's, his dark eyes innocently polite. "Aunt Militza will be inconsolate if she doesn't have a first-person account of your adventures, and she is a friend of your father's," he added with gentle emphasis.

Lisaveta hesitated, weighing logic against her charged feelings, the apparent sincerity of Stefan's request against the history of his past. "Just tonight?" she inquired, gauging the extent of her risk.

"That's it."

"If I don't have to be more than civil to your scowling fiancée."

"Agreed," Stefan quickly said, intent on having Lisaveta stay on any terms. Tonight he'd change her mind. He was confident.

The view was superb from the terrace, the sun pleasantly shaded by a rose trellis, the wind negligible, a samovar of great beauty the centerpiece of a magnificently arrayed tea table, when Lisaveta joined the party of three some twenty minutes later.

Teatime turned out to be interesting. It was also enlightening.

Stefan, it seemed, had known Nadejda only three days before he proposed.

Lisaveta had never met a true society miss.

Aunt Militza had met one too many and intended doing her best to see that Nadejda didn't enter her family permanently, though she was wise enough to keep her plans to herself.

"Were you raped, my dear?" Aunt Militza pleasantly inquired after the weather and state of the roads and progress of the war had been exhausted as topics of conversation. She offered Lisaveta a plate of pastel-frosted petits fours as though she were asking a perfectly mundane question. At the stunned look on Lisaveta's face, Aunt Militza pointedly added, "I mean by the Bazhis, of course."

Stefan choked as unobtrusively as possible on his mouthful of pâté and glared at his aunt. Nadejda hardly needed any prompting to anger. She'd already been rude to Lisaveta a dozen times. Swallowing quickly, he said, "Rest easy, Auntie, our troop arrived in time."

"How fortuitous," Militza replied, smiling as if the sun had finally broken through after a month of torrential storms. "Isn't that fortuitous?" she repeated, turning toward Nadejda, her smile intact.

"Stefan is known for his good fortune," Nadejda retorted, her lips pursed, her eyes cold enough to chill the equator.

But her words were the truth. He was, in fact, looked upon by superstitious people as leading a charmed life. Many of the soldiers in the Tsar's army touched Stefan for luck, viewing him as a pagan deity of sorts. He'd never been wounded, never harmed in all the years of leading his troops into battle, although he was always conspicuously in the lead of his cavalry, dressed not in battlefield uniform but in the striking white dress uniform of the Chevalier Gardes. His men would follow him anywhere, and on more than one occasion his bold charges had changed the course of battle.

"As is our entire family," Stefan's aunt cheerfully declared. "Although Lisaveta must have a guardian angel, too, traveling alone in a war zone. Why ever were you out there?"

Lisaveta explained in some detail why she'd been in Karakilisa and why she'd left so precipitously.

"A harem?" Aunt Militza said, obviously fascinated. "How exciting."

"Only from a distance," Lisaveta plainly replied, "I assure you."

"How disgusting," Nadejda said, her inflection managing to include Lisaveta in her assessment.

"And Hafiz?" Stefan's aunt went on as though Nadejda hadn't spoken. "He's one of my favorite poets. You must see Stefan's collection."

"I haven't seen it, Stefan," Nadejda pouted. "Why haven't you shown it to me?"

"You wouldn't like it, Nadejda," Militza said bluntly. Turning back to Lisaveta, she asked, "Don't you think Hafiz compares favorably with Ovid?"

"I think, Stefan, that if you have a collection you favor, I should know of it," Nadejda declared peevishly, arresting the consumption of her sixth frosted cake to state her annoyance. "At Madame Lebsky's Academy I won a first prize for poetry. Madame Lebsky said she'd never heard a better iambic pentameter."

Stefan was briefly at a loss since conversations about his collection of erotica were not usual in mixed company at tea.

He frowned at his aunt over his fiancée's blond head. Nadejda, momentarily distracted by the recalled beauty of her verse, was inwardly focused, her eyes half-closed in contemplation.

Stefan's aunt only smiled at him warmly as though she were beyond reproach.

"Darling," Nadejda said, her resentment forgotten with the memory of her cleverness in poetry, "would you like to hear my prize-winning poem?"

There was only one suitable answer, he knew, and he gave it.

They were instantly regaled with breathy drama and coy smiles to a rhyming description of a lake at sunset. Nadejda's metaphors were sugary, her similes strangely food focused. Long moments of heavy-handed rhyme later, Stefan worried he'd ever be able to enjoy a sunset again without visualizing caramel syrup dripping over the horizon.

Polite applause followed the poem's conclusion, however, a pleased preening smile graced Nadejda's flawless face, and an insidious sinking feeling settled in Stefan's stomach. He'd only squired his fiancée to receptions and balls the week he was on leave in Saint Petersburg, and their conversations had been interrupted and minimal in such circumstances. Was she truly so vacuous?

"Thank you, Nadejda," Militza said dismissively, although her tone was scrupulously cordial. "Stefan, why don't you take Nadejda for a stroll so that Lisaveta and I won't bother you with our discussion of Ovid."

Militza's suggestions were always delivered as well-mannered commands, but Stefan balked this time, his temper and patience on edge in his unaccustomed role of chivalrous fiancé to a woman who wrote such dreadful pedestrian poetry. "The Countess Lazaroff and I have some business to discuss, I'm afraid," he said. "She requires some bank drafts for her journey home. If you'll excuse us until dinner." He rose abruptly in no frame of mind to be further thwarted by his aunt or any female.

He needn't have concerned himself with his aunt's response. She was delighted to let her nephew go off with his new lover on whatever flimsy pretext he chose, and her smile was beatific when she gazed up at him towering above her. "By all means, Stefan, the Countess must be assured of her financial resources after having been left destitute on the steppes. Should we put dinner off until ten?"

Stefan's emphatic "Yes" and Lisaveta's "No" clashed starkly.

"My financial affairs won't be difficult to arrange," Lisaveta explained with a calm she was far from feeling. "I'm sure a banker in Tiflis will accommodate my needs. And if my name isn't recognized, either Papa's or cousin Nikki's will be sufficient." Lisaveta refused to fall into any of Stefan's plans. If he couldn't abide his fiancée's company, she wasn't going to be a convenient alternative, and if he thought he could snap his fingers and have her follow him, he had a lesson to learn. "Thank you, Stefan," she said with serene sweetness, "but your concern is unnecessary," and she reached for her teacup.

His arm shot out across his aunt's chair, his fingers closing around Lisaveta's wrist with her fingers just short of her teacup. "No reason, mademoiselle, to involve Nikki when my banker is amenable. And you forget," he said, his voice softly emphatic as he pulled her to her feet, took the lace napkin from her hand and placed it on the table, "your father's papers, which Haci saved from the Bazhis, need your attention."

She imagined he would prefer not involving Nikki, and as far as papers… He was thoroughly without scruple. There were no papers. For a moment Lisaveta considered exposing him before his rancorous fiancée. It would serve him right. She would simply deny the fictitious papers in embarrassing detail, but on second thought, he was offering her escape along with his own, and it didn't make much sense to suffer here over tea when freedom beckoned.

"I'm sure it won't take more than a few hours to sort them all and make certain nothing important is missing," he said, smiling, conscious she was acquiescing. "Should we say dinner at ten?" He waited, confident and assured, his intense dark eyes offering her… pleasure.

She waited perhaps five seconds before replying, because his assurance annoyed her. "Thank you," she finally said. "I'd like to see Papa's reports, but we needn't put off dinner." She turned to Aunt Militza. "Eight will be fine."

Aunt Militza conceded equal points to the two protagonists. How interesting the Countess would be for Stefan. He was familiar only with acquiescence and command. Countess Lazaroff apparently was, as well. "Eight it is," she said. "Now run along. I'm sure Nadejda and I would be bored to tears with reports."

As Stefan and Lisaveta left the terrace Nadejda was saying, "Stefan must show me his collection for it will be mine, too, very soon, and poetry is such a love."

"You are completely unscrupulous," Lisaveta said irritably, trying to shake his hand from her wrist. Stefan had guided her across the terrace and through the glass doors into the palace with what appeared a polite courtesy, but his grip was steel hard and he wouldn't be dislodged. "Let go of me!" Lisaveta snapped, struggling to wrench free. "You're unprincipled… selfish… you're-"

"-attracted as hell to you," he finished with that smile of his that she'd learned in the past week was capable of melting the polar ice cap. His fingers still firmly circled her wrist as his long stride took them rapidly through the drawing room adjoining the terrace.

"Don't try and dazzle me with that damn smile," she pettishly rebuffed, already feeling an answering heat through her senses.

"Temper, darling, the servants are watching." His smile was benign.

"I'm not your darling," she repudiated, "and knowing you, I'm sure the servants have seen considerably more than a woman arguing with you." Bristling with outrage at her body's eager, complacent response, vexed at his complacent response to a fiancée in the house, indignant he could so cavalierly ignore all but his own selfish interests, she continued huffily, "Knowing you, they could probably write their own manual on amorous technique simply from walking in on you, since you have no sense of propriety-Stefan, where are you taking me, tell me this second or I'll cause a scene, I swear, better yet, let me go and I'll forget any of this happened, I'll see you at dinner. Why don't you," she breathlessly went on as she was pulled down the hallway at a pace she had to run to accommodate, "spend the remainder of the afternoon showing Nadejda your Hafiz collection."

He laughed then. He didn't slow his progress, but clearly he was amused. "Do you think she'd like it?" His grin was wicked.

"I think you might have trouble getting her to the altar if you did."

"It's a thought," he softly said.

"You don't know her, do you?"

He was opening the door to his study, his favorite haven in his two-hundred-and-eighteen-room palace, a comfortable room filled with mementos precious to him. "I only saw her for a week, six months ago. She writes, and I answer occasionally."

Lisaveta wasn't a complete recluse from the aristocratic world she'd been born into. She understood most marriages were arranged for a variety of reasons having nothing to do with love, but Stefan had so much to offer a woman it seemed a shame he'd chosen such a bride. Even the manner of his choosing had been unusually prosaic. "When will you be married?"

"Sometime next year, I suppose." He could have been telling his valet which boots he preferred for all the feeling in his voice. "It's not a first priority, believe me. I may be dead by then if the Turks break through at Kars. Come sit down and talk to me," he said in a different tone, a quiet reflective nuance underlying his calm directive.

"I don't want to." She stood straight and tall, free now from his grasp.

He hesitated a moment before dropping into a down-cushioned chair upholstered in a tapestry incorporating his princely arms. Looking up at her he said very softly, "I wish you would."

Lisaveta sighed. His harsh features were tranquil, his powerful body relaxed against the burgundy silk, his dark eyes intent on her. Alone in his inner sanctum, surrounded by his personal mementos-photos of the Tsar; framed portraits of his parents, himself; precious jeweled icons and cabinets of medals; dress swords and weaponry-he was charismatic, the warrior in repose, the savior of Russia in private, the most sought-after man in Europe, and he was asking her to sit and talk.

Perhaps she had too many principles when he had none, perhaps she would later rue her choices, perhaps she should simply say yes to his invitation-and perhaps if his fiancée were not down the hall she might. But Lisaveta resisted being classed with all the other women to whom he'd extended similar casual invitations. She would make her own choices. Not he.

"I can never thank you enough for saving my life," she said, beginning to pace slowly before him as though her movement added authority to her resistance.

A promising start, he thought, and relaxed further.

"And certainly I'll remember forever the pleasure of the past week."

The feeling was mutual, he reflected. The days with Lisaveta had been not only passionate beyond his usual lust but different in character because they spoke to each other, their conversation an easy exchange of ideas and feelings. He'd never talked with a woman like the Countess Lazaroff. She seemed very like a friend, but much better, he decided a moment later, because she was a lush and sensual woman, as well.

"You are quite frankly-" Lisaveta stopped and gazed at Stefan levelly "-much better than any erotic fantasy I could have imagined." She was beautifully straightforward, and more than her compliment he admired her candor. "However-" and she began pacing again "-I'm not inclined to continue our pleasant relationship under your fiancée's nose. I know this isn't a concern for you but it is for me. Let's just say-it was nice." She stopped before him again. "But let's be sensible."

He'd listened politely, neither moving nor interrupting while she expressed her feelings, only watching her silently as she moved across the thick Kuba carpet, his dark eyes drifting occasionally to her slippered feet crushing the luxurious pile. Hand loomed near his mountain home, the navy-and-russet carpet reminded him powerfully of childhood summers, of his favorite retreat…and of his wish to take Lisaveta there. "I don't want to be sensible," he said, unmoving still.

"And I'm not interested in what you want." Lisaveta stood utterly motionless, as though her explanation had clarified both her mind and her restlessness.

Stefan's voice was almost hushed when he answered. "Are you interested in what you want?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand either his tone or his words. "Are you talking about sex? Why don't you just say it? DO you want to know if I want you?"

He shook his head, his first movement since he'd dropped into the chair, and even that response was minimal.

Her brows rose in brief surprise. "You don't?"

"I already know that. I was wondering if you were willing to acknowledge it."

His casual arrogance annoyed her. Prince Stefan Bariatinsky was much too confident. "I'm not afraid to acknowledge it. Surely after our leisurely trip north you're aware of my interest in your… assets."

He smiled faintly at her choice of words.

"I'm not, however, interested in the current triangle, which includes your fiancée."

"I had no idea Nadejda would be here." His voice was low and matter-of-fact. It wasn't an apology, only a statement.

Lisaveta grimaced. "But she is. And angry and resentful. With reason. I don't blame her."

"We could leave."

"No we couldn't," she protested. "No, I don't want to. No, I'm not open to other options to satisfy your salacious urges. No! Don't touch me!" she impassionedly finished as Stefan rose with a startling swiftness.

He stood very quietly for a moment as though her words had rebuffed him, and then he reached up to unbutton the collar hooks of his uniform tunic. The silver braided collar loosened and he pulled it away slightly from his tanned neck. "I won't if you don't want me to," he softly said, his hand dropping to his side.

"Good. I don't." She should have moved away then. It would have imparted more credulity to her declaration. But she didn't, and he took note of that omission.

"Do you know how much death and carnage I've seen in the past three months?" She didn't answer, and he continued, only his voice conveying his restlessness. "The Turks can skin a man alive," he quietly said. "It takes hours the way they do it. The screams are unearthly. You never forget them." He drew in a deep breath before continuing, and his voice dropped even further in volume. "They echo in your mind and make you break out in a cold sweat. They keep you awake at night, they make you pray to God you're never captured alive. They make you vow to die fighting. And you wonder at your courage, at your will to go on to another month of war, or two or six months, when you hardly sleep anymore, when you're afraid to shut your eyes because it could mean your death or, worse, your capture. When you haven't been clean in weeks and the food is grim or at best adequate. When you hear every day of another friend who's died. Thousands of Russian troops have died in assaulting Kars, and the only reason I'm on leave now is that replacements have to be brought up." His gaze surveyed the luxury of his surroundings as if to reassure himself he was safe from the black demons of the war and then came back to her.

"You helped me forget last week," he declared very simply. "You did for me, as well," Lisaveta replied.

"We helped each other then." He smiled his achingly beautiful smile. "And you reminded me there's goodness and laughter and love in the world."

"I know, Stefan," Lisaveta breathed, her voice almost inaudible, the quiet of the room surrounding them like silken solace. "I know what you're feeling. Life and living mean so much more to me now for haying almost died. But I won't…" she quietly added. "Please…" Her eyes were the color of warm sunsets and not pleading so much as patient. "Just thank you… I mean it truly. Thank you for everything."

She knew her feelings were becoming too involved with Russia's most exalted hero. He was so much more than his grand and valorous public image. She was drawn to his wit and intelligence as well as attracted to his harsh beauty, while his gentleness and expertise as a lover were pure perfection. She could never stay, so she must leave before her feelings were so deeply committed he would be forever in her heart. Her chin lifted a scant distance and her voice took on a new determination. "I'm going upstairs to rest before dinner and I intend to leave in the morning."

"You're sure?"

"I am."

He smiled. "And nothing I can say will change your mind?"

"Stefan," Lisaveta said, returning his smile, feeling more confident with her decision made, "you can have any woman in the Empire. You don't need me." Turning to go, she couldn't resist the obvious pointed barb. "Besides, Nadejda's here to entertain you."

It was not a pleasant thought. "Bitch," he whispered, the word ambiguously caressing.

Lisaveta grinned. "I couldn't resist. Forgive me." But her apology was lighthearted and unapologetic. "Until dinner, mon chou" she buoyantly said, feeling new strength in the rightness of her choice, and blowing him a smiling kiss, she left.

"Until tonight, mon chou" Stefan softly breathed. He'd make love to her then and convince her to stay, the best soldier in the Tsar's army vowed. And he'd never lost a campaign in his life.