Golden Paradise

Chapter Five

I'll scream," she said as he began to move toward her.

"Perhaps you didn't know," he replied, continuing his forward progress, his mouth curved in a warm smile, "my wing is separate from-" he paused, deliberating briefly on his choice of words "-the others." He was very close now so she had to look up to see his face. "I arranged to have you in…my wing." His dark eyes held hers. "Scream if you like," he softly said, "but I've no intention of hurting you." His hand came up to touch her and she moved away from the door. Stefan took a moment before following her to turn the key in the lock and slide it into his pocket.

"If I were you, I should think it humiliating to find restraint necessary." From the relative safety of the center of the room, Lisaveta sharply upbraided him.

"I'm a lazy man," Stefan murmured, immune to her provocation, testing the door latch to see it was locked, "and not inclined to chase you… anywhere." Teasing mockery underlay the moderation of his tone.

"What do you call this?" Lisaveta heatedly retorted as he advanced on her again and she retreated.

He grinned. "Foreplay?"

"I thought you were more subtle," she hissed.

"And I thought you more attuned to your feelings."

"I told you how I felt this afternoon."

"You told me only that you won't continue our friendship because of my fiancée."

"That's precisely how I feel."

"No, you feel the way I do… you feel the Angelglow," he murmured. "You feel deprived after a week of indulging your senses. You feel your skin against the silk of your chemise and petticoats. And," he finished in a husky whisper, "I can help you."

Stefan's words triggered the floodgates of sensation. He was advancing closer and she found her will to retreat diminishing. "How can it matter," he softly asked, "if we make love again?"

"It matters to me," Lisaveta said, low and breathless, but he was very near now, and all she could think of beyond her declaration of principle was how excruciatingly fine he had felt deep inside her, how perfectly he knew the chronology of her arousal, how hard and strong his powerful body felt beneath her hands, how his mouth felt touching hers… the way it would… now-

"No!" She found the will somewhere to resist.

For a flashing moment she saw his anger before she slid away under his arm.

He silently watched her run to the door and try the latch, watched her bang her fists loudly against the solid mahogany door and swiftly turn to face him a moment later, her cheeks flushed with her effort. "You can't force me," she said, her voice intense with emotion.

"I'd never force you, sweetheart." He dropped into a chair, held his hands out, palms open in surrender, and with genuine sincerity said, "I told you I wouldn't hurt you."

"Open the door then."

"I didn't say I'd open the door."

"Are we splitting hairs?" she angrily retorted.

"Are we?" he calmly responded. "To deny yourself what you want purely on principle seems like Jesuit dialectics. We shouldn't be engaging in polemics when we both agree we want each other."

"We don't agree on that."

"Do you remember Deva, when the night air was so sultry on the balcony your skin slipped against mine when I slid you down my body? Tell me you don't want to enjoy that pleasure again. Tell me you don't want to experience the sensations you felt that morning when I fed you strawberries for breakfast, first." His voice was hushed because she hadn't wanted to wait but he'd insisted.

Lisaveta knew she'd never be able to eat strawberries again without remembering the heated crying need she'd felt that morning. Nor forget how beautiful Stefan had looked, his dark hair wet from the bath, his bronzed skin damply sleek in the brilliant morning sunlight, his enormous power and strength overwhelming the small cottage room, enhancing his potent virility, and she'd wanted him se badly she'd ached. As she did now.

He hadn't moved in his casual sprawl, his arms resting on the chair exactly where they'd dropped after his yielding gesture. "Tell me," he said very softly, looking darkly handsome and splendid, his silk shirt open at the neck, the fine linen of his trousers accentuating the slimness of his hips and the corded muscles in his legs, "tell me you don't want me and I'll leave."

Lisaveta's cheeks were still flushed, but no longer from her exertions banging on the door. The color pinking her cheeks came from within, from the heat pulsing deep inside her, the heat of desire she'd tried valiantly to deny or suppress or pretend didn't matter as much as principle and pride.

"Tell me," he said again, his low voice like a velvet caress in the stark silence of the room.

She should say, "Go," she thought, gazing at him, but a fresh rush of desire inundated her senses at the sight of him. He was aroused, it was obvious, and a melting heat responded at that knowledge. Lisaveta shivered as she stood in the balmy night air of Tiflis in July.

"Are you cold?" he inquired, knowing she was not. He rose to his feet in a slow graceful movement.

"No," she whispered, as if her answer would hold him at bay.

"I didn't think so," he murmured. His gaze traveled to her bed and then back again in leisure invitation. "I know everything you like," he said with a soft emphasis on "everything," as though he were offering her carte blanche in pleasure.

And after endless hours making love in the week past, she knew he was capable of tumult and tenderness, playful savagery and the most delicate enchantment. Was he addictive, as well?

Lisaveta was so naively new to all the sensuous sensations that she wondered briefly if indeed it were possible. How else did one explain this hot, ungovernable, incautious urge, this unfathomable insistent pulsing through her blood and brain and sensitized nerves-that she must have him again or die?

"Are you addictive?" Her query was hushed, a question not only of reason but of feeling.

He was startled for a transient pulse beat as he quietly waited for her, because curiously the same speculation had come to his mind. Unlike this naive child, he wasn't a tyro in amorous games. He wanted her with an unfamiliar and disquieting urgency. Heedless of protocol, of his fiancée, of Nadejda's conservative parents, he intended keeping Countess Lazaroff until the very last minute of his leave. If that wasn't addiction, it was something very similar. So he smiled and said, "Yes," and in the next breath added, "Does that help?"

Stefan's smile was relaxed now, his thoughts on less taxing issues than the possibility of falling under a woman's spell. He'd shaken away his disquietude with his facetious reply and he was charming predator once again. His most practiced role.

"I'm serious, Stefan. It unnerves me."

"Don't be serious, darling. Please." He moved swiftly toward her, recognizing the most potent of her resistance was past. "War is serious, dying is serious. Making love is unmitigated pleasure… and joy." His voice was perhaps more intense than he wished, but Kars was too recent in his thoughts, the stench and horror not removed yet from his memory.

"When do you go back?" She'd seen the flicker of distress in his eyes.

"Twenty-one days, six hours, give or take a few minutes. Haci will come for me." His words were carefully devoid of emotion… too carefully controlled.

"Up against that," Lisaveta quietly said, putting out her hand, "I am being foolish."

How trivial her selfish motives of jealousy and resentment seemed when Stefan had only a short leave before going back to the brutality of war. How childish it seemed to say, "I won't love you," when she wanted to, with all her heart. How unimportant the issue of Nadejda's presence when he was here and wanting her with the same passion flaring through her senses.

He could die, she realized suddenly, when he returned to the war. What would she have then? The warmth of this memory tonight or the empty virtue of having refused him? Her fingers lightly touched his in affirmation and welcome.

As his hand closed over hers, he gazed down at her, thinking how fresh and young and untouched by the wretchedness of the world she looked. He wondered for the briefest moment whether she might be some apparition of his imagination.

But she smiled up at him, reminding him of her luscious corporeality.

"No, not foolish," he said in a quiet tone, then shrugged, because he knew she was only responding as any young woman of sensibility would. Nadejda's presence was a damnable obstacle. Taking both her hands in his, he pulled her close. "I'm just being selfish. Forgive me, dushka, but I am. And if it's any sop to your conscience or morality, I won't let you go tonight."

"In all honesty, I doubt I could have left you, Stefan," Lisaveta whispered. "But in the morning I must."

"I'll change your mind." He laughed then, buoyant as a young boy, plans already racing through his mind. "I'll show you my mountain retreat. You'll love it. It's secluded and high above the sultry heat. The pines reach clear to the sky. There's a stream running through the courtyard and-"

She kissed him then with tears in her eyes, because she couldn't stay and be drawn closer each day to a man she already was too much in love with. But she would love him tonight and stay with him one last time, as though she wouldn't relinquish paradise without that final lingering look back.

He intended to woo her with all the skill he'd acquired since first making love to his governess at thirteen. In the intervening years since Mademoiselle Dovrieu had come to instruct him in French art and literature and quickly lured him into her bed, he'd become accomplished at pleasing women. Perhaps Ursulina had much to do with his admirable competence. She'd taught him very young the valuable lesson of generosity. Sexual pleasure wasn't taking but giving, she'd benevolently declared. She'd proceeded in the ensuing two years, while he learned France's contributions to painting, architecture, drama and literature, to show him in a variety of ways the inescapable truth to that statement.

So he intended to give his darling Countess whatever she wished, however she wished, as often as she wished, and by the time morning came she'd have changed her mind about leaving.

He kissed her tears away first, with light brushing kisses, holding her gently in his arms and sighing in soft restraint when she reached up again to claim his mouth with hers. He was intensely aroused and had been from the moment she'd walked into the bedroom, but he only held her close, tasting the sweetness of her lips, gently stroking her back, waiting until she made the first tentative overture for more than kisses. He wouldn't rush her or force the pace; he wanted only to answer her need. Although, he thought with a confidence schooled by hundreds of satisfied women in his past, there were moments ahead when a sensuous form of aggression would be satisfying. But not yet.

Lisaveta was standing on tiptoe in order to reach Stefan's mouth, her arms raised high to twine around his neck. Stretched taut against the solid strength of his body, his arousal hard and explicit against her stomach, she felt like a human offering to some pagan god. He could have her, they both knew; she was clinging to him as though a worshiper at the altar of his sexuality, not indifferent or detached but alive with yearning. Stefan was right when he'd pressed her short moments ago to admit her need. She wanted him, she realized without pride. Her blood was pulsing through her veins in her readiness, her senses urgent in their submission. With a twinge of illogic and female conditioning, she wondered why he was content with kisses alone.

She moved her hips then with the merest of teasing pressure, and was pleased to feel Stefan's arousal swell in response. He was not, perhaps, content only with kisses. "You missed me today," she murmured, her smile the tempting one of Eve.

Looking down at her flushed and beautiful face, Stefan answered with his own captivating smile, "You noticed."

Beneath the casual restraint of his remark ran his habitual arrogance. "Mmm," Lisaveta replied, her soft voice coyly thoughtful and teasing, "I think so…"

"And reversed your decision on celibacy."

He was arrogant, she realized, about his physical attributes and prowess, although justifiably so. "I don't necessarily believe in celibacy," she sweetly said, intent on moderating his arrogance, "but I do believe in a variety of experiences." She was baiting him, her soft emphasis intentional.

"Really," Stefan quietly replied, compelling himself to suppress his sudden flare of anger. "In that case," he murmured, his eyes darkly seductive in a way Lisaveta didn't recognize because she'd never seen him celibate for an entire day, "I'll contrive not to bore you with redundance."

"Thank you," she said, her own surge of resentment impelled by his obviously nonredundant expertise. "This will be different tonight, then, won't it," Lisaveta breathed, "like a farewell performance." It angered her that she still meltingly wanted him, it angered her that she could no more walk away from him than she could stop breathing.

"Let's just call it mutual… intoxication," Stefan whispered. And not a farewell at all, he thought, but rather the beginning of-no caution was necessary in his silent contemplation; he could frankly call it what it was-a carnal adventure.

They were both, despite their anger and resentment, profoundly aroused, and as Stefan was deciding he wouldn't wait after all for Lisaveta's overtures, she reached her arms up and snaked them around his shoulders. Then, so quickly he didn't have time to protect himself, she stretched upward and sank her teeth into his bottom lip.

"So you don't forget me," she said as he stood rigidly silent, his lip bloody, his impulse to strike out curbed with only the most forceful restraint. Her arms were still on his shoulders, his loose at his sides, until suddenly, in an offensive response intrinsic to his nature and profession, his hands slid around her to the base of her spine, splayed out and crushed her to him so tightly she could feel the blood pulsing in his erection.

"You won't forget, either, darling," he said with a lazy drawl, "I promise." Lifting her into his arms in a flurry of silken skirts, he carried her over to the bed and dropped her onto the green brocade coverlet. "Do you want music?" he asked, not looking at her, pulling his shirt over his head, treating undressing and atmosphere as equally commonplace.

When Lisaveta gazed at him in astonishment from the crush of azure silk in which she lay, he added, glancing at her briefly as he tossed his shirt aside, "I could have the musicians come up." He paused a moment unfastening the first of his trouser buttons and grinned. "For the farewell performance."

"No!" she quickly retorted, realizing he was serious, realizing he probably wouldn't be embarrassed making love before an entire massed orchestra, aware his musicians were likely more familiar with this room than she was. "No music, please," she appended, wanting to make herself perfectly clear, suddenly struck with the awareness that-with or without music-Stefan Bariatinsky made her heart and quivering senses sing, made life a sweet melody of pleasure.

He shrugged, as though lack of music might be a stumbling block to his enjoyment but he'd defer to her wishes. His deepening smile was redolent with courtesy and charm. "Whatever you wish," he softly said, kicking off his boots while she watched, fascinated by his extraordinary beauty and its effect on her. And when he stripped off his trousers and underclothes with an ease that spoke of repetition, her breath caught for a moment in her throat.

He was massive-muscled, powerful, spectacularly aroused. Lisaveta shivered in anticipation. Despite all logical arguments to the contrary, he was a temptation she couldn't resist, a prize she coveted, a pleasure she must have… and she found herself reaching to undo the jeweled buttons on her gown.

"Let me do that," Stefan softly said, moving toward her, seating himself beside her, brushing her hands aside without waiting for her answer.

"I hate you, you know," Lisaveta whispered, the dampness between her thighs a contradiction to her words, her hand lifting to glide over Stefan's sharply defined pectorals, the dark hair on his chest rough to her touch, the feel of him beneath her hand the antithesis of hate.

"It doesn't matter," he answered, not about to argue the illogic of her declaration, his slender fingers deftly sliding her glittering buttons free. It doesn't matter what you call it, he thought-for her desire was evident and obvious, her face and neck and throat pinked with excitement, her hips moving languidly as if anticipating his entry-as long as you feel it. A moment later when his hand slid under her opened bodice and beneath the silk of her chemise, stroking the pliant softness of her breast, her eyes closed and she moaned softly. He smiled. Her hate, he reflected, as his other hand crumpled the blue silk of her skirt upward over her legs, had a tantalizing focus.

She had only to look at him, she contemplated, mortified and indefensible against his presence, to feel herself open in welcome, and when he touched her, her skin took on a heated glow. Tonight was all she dared stay, the terminus and final allowance of her submission to Stefan's dominating passion. Tonight, she told herself, even as she reached for him, just one last time tonight and then she'd walk away from this overwhelming compulsion.

She was wet before he touched her there, she was hot and damp and slick as cream when he slid his fingers in to rouse her and test her need and give her pleasure. She uttered a small cry, swallowed partly in her throat when his fingers reached the quivering limits and stroked, a trembling ecstasy shuddering through her senses. Before he could even undress her she climaxed, as if the long and celibate day had been frustrating and wearing on her restraint, as well.

He kissed her open mouth then, drawing in her small panting breaths, taking pleasure in her need for him, thinking with an unhurried tranquillity that he liked the feel of her silk gown next to his skin.

"And now it's my turn, greedy child," he murmured into the sweetness of her mouth. Drawing her into his arms, he rose with her to a comfortable position against the painted headboard, gilded with Venetian exuberance, rosy-skinned putti and garlanded borders. Without speaking and with a pertinent haste indicating his own ardent libido, Stefan lifted Lisaveta and balanced her above his rigid arousal. She helped him then because he needed one hand to draw up her ruffled skirt and petticoat, the practical design of her lacy drawers no impediment, and she guided him until they were in perfect conjunction. It was his turn to groan softly, his dark lashes drifting downward as she closed around him, and it seemed, he thought for a moment, sliding slowly upward as though paradise had taken corporeal form, as though physical and spiritual experience coalesced into one beautiful woman seated astride him. He understood in a single explosive revelation, strangely rose-hued and glowing, why so many religions had over the millennia worshiped female deities.

This intense pleasure searing his mind and body was centered on her hot female body, on the perfect melting fit of her around him, on the slippery gliding invasion, on his possession of her. Suddenly he was desperately rampant, like a volcano about to explode.

He resisted the impulse as long as he could because he understood the gratification in delay, but Lisaveta's voluptuous breasts were brushing his chest as she moved on him, her soft bottom enticing against his thighs, her kisses wet and warm and delicious, and even repressing his need, he knew it would soon be over.

The long hours of wanting her were taking their toll, her scent alone bewitching, and she languidly eased herself back down each time with exquisite slowness. She remembered what he liked, she was deliberately pleasing him. She didn't hate him, he knew, nor he her. A scant pulse beat later, his hands closed harshly on her waist, forcing her down as he thrust upward, and when she cried out he poured into her as though he hadn't climaxed in a hundred years.

He didn't move afterward for long minutes, incapable of action or even thought. Only feeling held reign, and he clasped Lisaveta in his arms while paradise receded in slow degrees.

She kissed him first then, in the quiet of the enormous room where he'd placed her for exactly this purpose, and wondered how she could still want him so, knowing that.

He kissed her back without profound contemplation of the unanswerable questions; he kissed her back because she gave him unique pleasure and an odd inexplicable happiness and he liked the feel of her breasts against his chest.

He undressed her much later when their bodies had cooled- or more appropriately, mildly cooled, since their passion was undiminished, only temporarily assuaged-and had her wash herself so he could watch.

"If you don't mind," he said.

"If you'll let me wash you next," she softly replied.

"And if I say no," he answered, his voice playful, for she could do what she wished with his blessings.

"Then," she said, with arched brows and a temptress's smile, "I suppose I'll have to tie you up first."

Her statement had predictable effect on his arousal and his own smile was wolfish. "In that case I'll decidedly say no."

As it turned out, neither was patient enough for prolonged games, too ravenous for each other. The remainder of the night passed in simple tender passion, more amorous than erotic, more precious in its closeness than its lust. Lisaveta knew each moment brought her nearer to losing him; Stefan wasn't interested in exploits but in holding her near, and the rapture of their lovemaking was conspicuous for its need and naked disclosure of their feelings.

Very late, when they lay exhausted in each other's arms, Lisaveta whispered, "Stepka," the sound of his name a sigh of sated pleasure.

He stiffened for a moment. No one but his father had ever called him by the diminutive Stepka, and he hesitated briefly, equivocal responses racing through his mind.

Then Lisaveta smiled up at him as she lay on his chest, her chin propped on her hands, and he decided he liked the sound of the name when she said it. The tension drained from his muscles, and although Lisaveta didn't realize it, she'd set the first wedge in some very long-standing defenses erected years ago by a young adolescent determined never to succumb to love.

"My sweet Lise," he murmured, and kissing his fingertip, he gently brushed it across her luscious bottom lip. "I adore you."

Her smile was winsome, her eyes bright suddenly with tears. "The feeling, Stepka, darling," she whispered, "is mutual."

The room was still in shadow when he felt her pull away. "Where're you going?" Although drowsy and half-asleep, he automatically tightened his arm around her.

"To ring for chocolate." She knew it was Stefan's habitual start to the day.

"Now?" His eyes were closed, his murmured question husky with sleep.

"For later."

"Ring later, sleep now," he muttered, and tugged her closer.

They'd been up most of the night, and if Lisaveta hadn't been taut with nerves over her departure, she would have been sleeping, too. She lay quiescent in his arms for what seemed ages, waiting for his breathing to deepen, and long minutes later when he rolled over, she slipped from his embrace.

She stood by the bed, nude in the cool morning light, the summer air smelling of damp lilies from the garden below, watching him out of caution but also out of her own poignant need. She wouldn't see him again and she wanted a last look before she walked away from the most perfect and beautiful days of her life.

Her gaze traveled lovingly down the great length of his body and then up again with lingering slowness as if she could etch on her memory forever the sight of him. He'd rolled over so his face was resting on his pillow, and she visually traced the perfection of his classic features, in profile now, like Alexander's head on a Macedonian coin. Since Alexander had conquered Persia centuries earlier, perhaps the classic genes were truly incorporated. There was much of his mother's elegant Persian heritage, too, in the refined detail of his severely modeled features, in the beauty of his long-lashed eyes and the delicate curve of his mouth. In height and stature, in musculature and strength, he must favor his father however, she thought. Field Marshal Bariatinsky was reputed to have equaled his ancestor Orlov in size.

She looked for a moment more at his slender hands, the great corded muscles running down either side of his spine, the softness of his curls lying like black silk on his neck and the sleek broad expanse of his bronzed body, as if tying the parcel of her memories together.

"Goodbye, Stepka," she murmured so softly the words never touched the air, and then silently moved away from the bed to the adjoining dressing room. Her clothes were all gone from the wardrobe, packed by silent hands in the night…only one traveling gown was left hanging in the armoire. She smiled, hoping whoever had quietly seen to the disposition of her luggage hadn't been disturbed by the noises from the adjacent bedroom.

She liked the choice of traveling dress, she decided. The soft pink linen was perfect for a summer day. Lifting the jacket from the hanger, she noticed the note tucked into her pocket. "Please keep the pearls as a remembrance of our meeting. They do your beauty justice." And Militza had signed her name in a spidery Arabic penmanship. Lisaveta reached up to touch the earrings still in her ears and smiled, reminded of how Stefan had told her he liked her dressed only in her earrings.

How generous Militza was, she reflected…like her nephew, who had given her love and laughter and enchantment she would always treasure. But she would leave the necklace; it was too precious… and-lying as it was on the bedside table-too close to Stefan. She dared not return to the room.

"Thank you, Militza," she murmured, tucking the note back into the pocket, knowing the pearl drop earrings would remind her always of Tiflis and a night of love and passion. And remind her, too, of a man who had taken hold of her heart.

She dressed after that with a calculated briskness, forcing her thoughts on her journey ahead, refusing to become maudlin over a situation that had always had a foreseeable end. Leaving by the servants' entry into a back hallway, she found her way to the wide empty second-floor corridor, walked the length of the east wing to its juncture with the massive curving central staircase and, moving down the polished marble steps, reached the main entrance. Opening the door herself in the servantless palace, she saw her carriage, as arranged, waiting for her.

With a small bow the coachman explained a valise of roubles had been placed inside the carriage for her, and he and the two outriders were at her disposal.

She was comfortably seated with the friendly informality typical of Stefan's staff, the carriage door was closed, and at the crack of a whip the horses broke into a gentle trot.

The morning sun was a perfect summer maize.

The air was tepid and calm.

Stefan's white marble palace, crowning the heights above Tiflis, began diminishing in size. It was over.

When Stefan woke two hours later, he lazily rolled on his back and with a casual sweep of his arm reached out for Lisaveta. Only the smoothness of silk sheets, the great expanse of empty bed, met his hand, and he swore even before he fully opened his eyes.

Damn her! Instantly alert, he snapped his head around but knew without looking she was gone. Furious, he shouted for his valet and lunged out of bed. Reaching for his trousers, he thought it odd when Ellico didn't appear. He shouted again. As he swiftly dressed, he cautioned himself to deal with his feelings less emotionally, although for a man who operated a good deal on instinct, curbing his emotions required more control than he was currently feeling. Perhaps, he suggested to himself, trying mightily to gain a calm perspective at the same time he was cursing buttons that failed to button rapidly enough, Lisaveta was in the dressing room or on the balcony. Perhaps, he thought, pulling on his boots with a small grunt of exertion, she rose early and was breakfasting with Militza.

Like hell, his dominant passion noted as he grabbed his shirt and strode to the bank of French windows facing east. Pushing the gauze curtains aside, he scanned the small balcony adjoining the bedroom because he was going to take five seconds to be reasonable.

She wasn't there…

His nostrils were flared in anger as he crossed the large bedchamber to the dressing room door, and shoving it open with the palm of his hand, he stood in the doorway and swore.

"Damn her!"

He could scratch the possibility of her breakfasting with Militza.

He could reject other possibilities of her presence in other areas of his palace, as well. From the looks of the armoire, stripped clean of her gowns, his darling lover had flown the coop.

"Ellico!" he roared, turning to retrace his steps, recrossing the Shirvan rug in almost a run. He was out the door into the hallway before he considered how curious it was that his voice wasn't heeded. In the next moment, discarding speculation on his servants' inefficiency, he refocused on the important overriding issue of Lisaveta's escape. His choice of word in regard to her leaving was symptomatic of his military background or perhaps more aptly of his proprietary feelings.

Striding down the corridor, he shrugged into his shirt while his mind raced over all the possibilities of her destination. Or more importantly, when she had left; her destination was, in his current frame of mind, not likely to be reached. Tucking in his shirttails with a minimum effort, he covered the distance down the carpeted passage with haste, distracted from the unusual quiet by more prominent considerations. When, exactly, had she left? Had she traveled by carriage… or horse? She had luggage, of course; she'd have gone by coach. Good. He could overtake her more easily.

The Orbeliani family motto was, I Am God's Spoiled Child, and Stefan had been operating too many years under that maxim to deny himself anything. He wanted Lise, so he would have her. Regardless. And that word encompassed a myriad of disastrous possibilities he chose to ignore.

At the stables he paced restlessly while Cleo was being saddled, intent on taking off in pursuit, agitated at every moment lost, knowing each minute placed Lisaveta farther out of reach. She'd be traveling to Vladikavkaz where the railway line ended. The military road was the only one out of the Caucasus. At least he didn't have to deal with numerous possibilities. Glancing up at the sun he disgruntledly thought, Damn, it was late.

"When did Countess Lazaroff leave?" he asked tersely.

"Orders were to have the first carriage ready at seven." A minimum staff had been left at the stables to service the carriages for Lisaveta and Nadejda.

Stefan's dark brows rose. "First carriage?"

"Princess Taneiev leaves at nine."

"She's leaving?" The pleasure in Stefan's voice was noticeable.

"Only to the Viceroy's palace, Your Excellency." The young groom's tone was sympathetic. Servants always knew all the gossip, and the relationship between Stefan and his fiancée was common knowledge.

If Lisaveta had left at seven he'd need Haci and some of his troopers, Stefan decided, Nadejda dismissed from his mind much as he'd dismissed her from his life. Lise had nearly two hours' head start and Cleo couldn't overtake her alone. He'd need fresh horses.

"Find Haci-I'll finish that," he said briskly, taking the bridle from the groom. "Where the hell is everyone?" he asked next, finally consciously noticing the dearth of servants. Normally the stable yard was bustling with activity in the morning, since Stefan kept a string of racers and polo ponies that had to be exercised. He had a stable crew of fifty.

"Princess Taneiev is bringing in French servants, Your Excellency, from the Viceroy's palace. For her parents' dinner tonight. The staff is off for the day."

"The staff is what?" Stefan's voice was a low resonant growl.

"Off, sir." The boy's eyes were innocent.

"Everyone?"

"Yes, sir."

"On whose orders?" There was a distinct rumble of leashed fury beneath his soft tone.

"I don't know, sir." Georgi had made it plain Princess Orbeliani was to be protected.

"Well, who told you?"

"Georgi, Your Excellency."

"Get him!"

"He's gone, sir."

"Hell." Stefan jerked the bridle buckle in irritation and almost got bitten for his temper, since Cleo's equine personality was far from placid. "Sorry," he quickly apologized to his horse. "Damn women," he went on as though his mount understood, and perhaps she did, because she nuzzled Stefan's shirtfront as if in sympathy. "Get Haci, then, dammit. I don't fancy he was dismissed." A mild sarcasm underlay his gruff tone. "And where do you keep my rifle and revolver?" The weapon mounts on his saddle were empty.

"In the tack room, sir…in the gun cabinet."

"Thank you-hurry-don't be alarmed," Stefan added, altering his menacing rumble. "I'm not angry with you." He could see the young man's apprehension had mounted at his own increasing irritation. "But bloody hurry," he softly emphasized.

Already his thoughts were moving forward to assess the various points where Lisaveta would have to stop to change horses. In that respect he had a distinct advantage. He and his troopers could travel almost twice as fast as a coach. Twice as fast, for certain, he corrected himself, with the state of the military road to Vladikavkaz. He did the simple arithmetic in his head, traced the backtracking in his mind and gauged their estimated arrival at his mountain lodge. By four o'clock at the latest. How nice. He could show Lise the magnificent mountain sunset.

And he smiled for the first time since waking, a man once more in control.