Golden Paradise

Chapter Six

Fifteen minutes later-ten minutes too late for General Prince Orbeliani-Bariatinsky, who had sat mounted, snapping orders, since Haci and his men had arrived on the run-the troop of mounted men galloped out of the stable yard. Sweeping around the west wing of the palace, kicking the carefully raked gravel drive into shambles, they found themselves on a collision course with the carriage waiting for Nadejda. She was late and only now strolling down the bank of marble stairs, her parasol up against the mild morning sun.

Upon sighting Stefan, she stopped poised on the first landing and delicately waved her white gloved hand.

Oh, hell! Stefan thought. Damnation! They could have swerved around, avoiding both the carriage and his tedious fiancée, but, influenced by years of good manners, he hauled Cleo to a sudden skidding halt, his troopers followed suit in a chaotic rearing stop behind him.

Delicately fanning away the cloud of dust rising from milling horses, Nadejda smiled in greeting, as though she and Stefan were meeting on a promenade. "Good morning, Stefan. Isn't it a delightful day?"

Hell, no, Stefan thought, banal phrases, in his current mood, only further ignition to his anger. Nadejda made an incongruous picture on his palace steps. He'd never thought of her as actually living in his home. A fiancée seemed apart somehow-a name one referred to in conversation, a distant future, as in someday-ay-ay-ay, bride. His only memories of her were as his beautiful companion at balls and parties in Saint Petersburg. But she would be actually physically installed in his home. The second small fissure in his staid and practical image of matrimony appeared. Nadejda at table last evening had been the first appalling crack.

Cleo, recognizing perhaps Stefan's impatience, was sidling nervously, dancing in staccato prancing agitation at the base of the stairs.

"Give my regards to your parents," Stefan said with civility if not good humor, but he couldn't bring himself to extend his greeting to their host, the Viceroy. Although he and Prince Melikoff often met in public since both were prominent figures in the Caucasus, Stefan's enmity toward the usurper of his father's post was undiminished. Melikoff was essentially a courtier, neither a soldier nor a diplomat, and he treated the native tribes with the arrogant disdain of that clique. With his own heritage from his mother's family closely linked to the native tribes, Stefan not only resented Melikoff s parochial vision but took personal affront at his ethnic slurs.

Nadejda stood twirling her parasol in what seemed to Stefan an irritating affectation and Cleo was about to take a nip out of someone if he didn't get moving soon. "Darling," Nadejda replied, her lashes lowered and raised in some ridiculous flirtatious parody, "you can offer your regards to Mama and Papa yourself. I'm on my way now to fetch them."

Luckily Stefan couldn't see his troopers' expressions behind him for they were exchanging amused glances after having just been hauled away from their breakfast in order to accompany their Prince on a scorching chase after his escaped lover. Being Muslim, they saw no ethical problems in having more than one woman; they were allowed four wives. None of them, however, quite understood what their Prince had seen in the blond woman with the lavender eyes and too-sweet voice. He normally had better taste in women. Having served him as bodyguard for years, they were in a position to know his tastes.

"I'm sorry to have to miss your mama and papa, but orders came in this morning and I must leave." Stefan's voice was mild, but his grip on Cleo's reins was straining the muscles in his right arm.

"Nonsense, Melikoff can rescind any orders. I'll simply tell-"

"No." His voice interrupted, restrained and taut. "Melikoff gives no orders to me."

"Don't be silly, Stefan, he's the Tsar's representative for the entire Caucasus." She spoke as though she were informing him of one of life's basic facts.

"I take orders directly from the Tsar, not Melikoff."

She made the mistake of stamping her foot. It was exactly the wrong thing to do in the current circumstances, although with Stefan's personality, perhaps it would always be objectionable. "You can't go," she unmistakably said.

Stefan's eyes widened momentarily, Cleo felt the stab of the bit in her mouth, and then Stefan said very softly, "I must."

"You'll be back for dinner certainly." The parasol had stopped its languid twirling and her pouty lips were pursed.

"I'm afraid not." Each word was clipped.

"I'm bringing over Melikoff's staff," she angrily declared, "to serve."

"I'm sure Aunt Militza will appreciate it," he curtly replied, angered beyond words at her presumption. No one replaced his staff; they were like family, new generations replacing the old and serving the Bariatinskys or Orbelianis through the centuries. "Move this carriage," he snapped to the coachman. "Immediately!" It was a gesture of authority only, for his men could ride by in smaller formation, but it pleased him to exercise his power in her presence. Bitch, who did she think she was? was his first spontaneous thought. His second thought, more rational and hence more disconcerting, was that once they were married, she would be ordering his household.

"Good day, mademoiselle," he said grimly, and swinging Cleo around, he rode past the carriage. His men followed him in good order, smiles on their faces, looking forward to the chase. It was a perfect morning for a ride; they always preferred a hunt to simple riding.

As they swept down the drive, the sprawling city lay before them, nestled in its cradle of hills… a series of villages, citadels and bazaars swarming up and down the cliffs and conical hills, divided by the gorge of the river Koura. Stefan maintained what he considered a restrained pace through the steep streets of the Nari-Kala, the Persian citadel with its Armenian quarter. He led his troops across the bridge to the center of town, where the Russian or Europeanized buildings had been constructed fifty years ago, and holding Cleo in with effort, he continued past the theater, the Nobles Club, the public gardens, administrative buildings and shops selling all the luxuries of Europe. As his troops ascended into Avlabar, the Georgian town with its fortress and the church built by Vakhtang Gourgastan, the founder of Tiflis, Stefan began counting the streets as they passed, his jaw clenched tight, his breathing controlled. The last dwellings of the Gypsy quarter straggled away finally into dusty wastes, and letting out a whoosh of breath, he relaxed his grip on the reins and gave Cleo her head.

Sensing his restive mood she tossed her head, caracoled a dozen paces as if to say, I understand, and then, stretching out in a racing drive, flew down the road.

The fast-moving troop gained on Lisaveta slowly. Each post stop on the Georgian Military Road delayed her, while Stefan's own horses were ridden in relays without stopping. Each trooper led a string of mountain ponies ready to be swung onto at a gallop, an effortless action for men considered the best riders in the world.

Stefan was silent, riding full-out, all his energies concentrated on arresting Lisaveta's flight. She was more determined than he expected but not, he brusquely reflected, likely to outrun him, Nadejda's interference notwithstanding. And thoughts of Nadejda, Melikoff, her parents, her damnable affectations, all added fuel to his already heated temper. Haci made the mistake of mentioning once that riding the horses to death wouldn't accomplish their mission, but his warning, however gentle, gained only a flinty look from Stefan, and he too fell silent.

Lisaveta traveled at a leisurely pace through the rich Georgian lowlands, then as the road began to ascend, the carriage wound upward slowly through sombre defiles, past forts and ruined castles, the snow-covered mountains all around on the far horizon. She was in no particular hurry, mildly fatigued from her sleepless night and perhaps at base reluctant to be leaving.

She had to depart, she knew, but that fact didn't obliterate her disinclination. How nice it would have been to stay if she could have quashed all sense of pride, if she could have reconciled herself to the recreational position Stefan required.

He needed surcease from the war, a sensual holiday to mitigate the impact of twelve weeks of campaigning. She was opportune and convenient. Perhaps there were women willing to be only a convenience for Stefan.

She found she could not.

She'd also found Nadejda a deplorable obstacle. Or perhaps the extent of Stefan's casual resolution to marry Nadejda was the more potent stumbling block.

There was a small voice inside her brain saying to all her logical assessments, You'd be so much better, and she smiled at the sheer bravado of such audacity.

Better for what? Better in which way? Better than the hard and practical reasons Stefan had for marrying Princess Taneiev?

Hardly.

But better able, she admitted with a small sigh of regret, to love him.

From that disastrous thought she was determined to distance herself, and distance herself as well from the physical allure of Prince Bariatinsky.

The driver was singing at the top of his voice. Gazing out the window, she smiled. It was a glorious place they were driving through, reddish cliffs hung with ivy and crowned with deep green pines, far above them the gilded fringe of snows and far below the river thundering out from a black misty gorge to become a silvery thread glittering in the sun. She should be grateful-for the beautiful day… for her memories.

Stefan was swinging onto his fifth mount since Tiflis, dropping into place without checking the horse's galloping stride; he rode bareback as easily as on his padded saddle and had the calluses to prove it. Even as he strung out the long braided lead, allowing the riderless ponies to drop back, he glanced at the sun swiftly and then at the road descending into the valley below. The Georgian highway, which had been hacked through the mountains in a titanic five-year struggle, clung to the rock face of the mountains, descending and mounting through valley after valley, through gorges and defiles, each as familiar as his own landscaped acres.

She couldn't be too far ahead now since they'd been on the road for almost three hours. His blue lacquered coach was distinctive and Lisaveta noticed as well for her beauty; each post stop knew exactly when the carriage and lovely lady had passed. She was, according to the ostlers at Tskhinval-the last fort before the Krestovaia Pass-no more than fifteen minutes ahead.

Stefan nudged his Orloff mare into more speed, and Haci, waving the men behind them forward, whipped his own mount to close the distance between himself and Stefan.

Ten minutes later they caught sight of a vivid flash of royal blue disappearing over the crest of a rise and Stefan smiled, a wolfish smile not entirely without malice. He was hot and tired, dusty after three hours on the road and in the mood to blame someone other than himself for this morning pursuit. Sliding his Winchester from his saddle mount, he fired six rapid shots into the air and then slowed his horse to a canter. His driver and outriders would recognize the signal.

The chase was won.

"Why are we stopping?" Lisaveta asked the mounted man outside the carriage window, apprehensive after hearing the rifle fire to find the coach coming to a standstill in the middle of the road. Bandits were still prevalent in the mountains, and if they were being attacked, surely they shouldn't be stopping.

"Were those shots?" she added, hoping the way a child might for a reassuring answer.

"The Prince, mademoiselle,'" he said, resting both hands on his saddle pommel and smiling. He had begun the trip addressing her with the rigid protocol required by many nobles, but she had resisted being called "Your illustriousness" and he had deferred to her wishes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"But we're over four hours out of Tiflis."

"Almost five, mademoiselle," he corrected.

"Why would 'the Prince'-" she duplicated his pronunciation "-be riding north?"

"I couldn't say, mademoiselle" the young man politely replied, although he had a pretty fair notion why, having lived in Stefan's household all his life.

"Need we wait?"

She could have been asking him, "Is there a God?" so startled was his expression. But, of course, she understood as well as the astonished young outrider why Stefan was on the road to Vladikavkaz.

And she didn't think he was bringing a proposal of marriage.

In the next moment she chastised herself for unrealistic presumption as well as for demanding justice. She had with eyes wide open and entire free will entered into her relationship with Stefan, and now suddenly she was requiring decorum. It was unjust to him and to her sense of freedom. His pursuit, however, was also unjust to her sense of freedom, and she hoped he'd be reasonable to deal with.

Maybe he was simply coming after her to say goodbye.

As the sound of hoofbeats neared, the outrider moved away from the carriage, and swirling dust drifted by her window, mingling with men's voices raised in greeting, the jingle of harness, horses' neighing in recognition of stablemates. She heard Stefan's voice, too, in the melee of sound, and moments later the carriage door swung open.

He filled the small portal, wearing his clothes from the previous night, his face sweat-streaked and moody, his hair in damp curls, his lip still slightly swollen where she'd bitten him. The sun was at midpoint and hot even at the mountain altitudes.

"Come," he said curtly, and put out his gloved hand.

No proposal of marriage, that terse command, nor a poetical declaration of goodbye. Not that she'd expected either. But then she'd also not expected the cold chill order. He could be a man of persuasive charm.

"No," she replied, for a tangle of reasons she'd already spent hours dwelling on.

Wiping his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, he said, "Don't push me, Lise. We've been riding our ass off for almost three hours.''

"Is that my fault?" Her mild sarcasm took issue with his egoistic viewpoint. She was hardly to blame for his willful urges; she'd certainly not asked him to follow her.

"Who the hell else's?" he growled, immune to her reasoning, tuned in to his own sense of inconvenience.

"I told you I was leaving," she said, her declaration inflected with emphasis. "It couldn't have come as such a surprise." The scent of his sweat struck her as a breeze blew in from the open door and it was overlaid with the cologne he favored, a special blend distilled in the bazaar from local flora. She was reminded instantly as the fragrance struck her nostrils of other times they'd been heated-by a riding of another sort. She wondered then how useful her words would be, or how irrelevant against a man of Stefan's determination.

His answering sigh was audible only to her, and his voice dropped in volume. "I'd love to stand out here in the middle of the mountains under a hot sun," he said very softly, "after two hours' sleep in clothes I haven't changed since yesterday, and argue the fine points with you, Countess, if I was in the mood for an argument-which I'm not."

Her question was answered, but not without invoking her own willful disposition. "And that means?" Lisaveta slowly said, a flare of resentment responding to his princely peremptoriness and sulky dark glance-to his notion she could be ordered about like a minion.

"It means the discussion is over. You'll need a horse for the rest of the journey, so kindly give me your hand and I'll help you alight."

"And if I don't wish to journey with you?" she said, narrow-eyed and combative. For all her life she'd had charge of her actions, trained from early childhood to be responsible for her own decisions. She didn't take kindly to orders, princely or otherwise. She was too privileged herself, too wealthy, too educated to fall into a subservient role.

Stefan glanced around briefly. His men were lounging on their ponies, but even the most objective observer wouldn't doubt their capacity for action. "Really, darling, save yourself the embarrassment of being taken bodily from this carriage."

"Are you abducting me against my will?" Her shoulders had straightened in defiance.

"Hell, no. I'm taking you on a more scenic route home, and don't start all that 'against my will' dialogue because we settled that last night. I'm only here to accommodate your…" His smile was libertine and assured and he considered saying "lust" but gentlemanly decided against it. Women normally preferred a more romantic term for their carnal urges. "Wishes," he very softly finished.

"My wishes are to continue north in this carriage."

"And you will… eventually."

"When will that be?" she inquired, each word chill with icicles.

He seemed to be silently calculating. "Twenty days, sixteen hours, give or take a few minutes. It depends on Haci."

"Damn you." He intended to keep her his entire leave.

"My feelings exactly," he grimly said. "Now if you don't mind…" He reached for her.

She inched backward into the corner of the seat. "What if I resist?"

His eyes shut briefly. "Hell, Lise, you'd think I was going to stake you out on a mountaintop as prey for the eagles. You'll like my mountain lodge, believe me."

"It's the coercion I take issue with."

"Would you like a princely invitation? I thought I did that last night." And he had, with grace and courtesy and delight in his descriptions of his mountaintop aerie.

She had no choice, short of being dragged kicking and screaming from the carriage. She was outnumbered, weaponless and quite alone against Stefan and his men. But she could at least protest. "I want to categorically express my dissent," she said, her voice unsteady with frustration, "to this- this-"

"Holiday? Fine. Great. Accepted. Can we go now?" He placed one foot onto the metal step, tipping the carriage with his weight. "Ready?" he said with a smile.

"You're incorrigible and shameless and completely overbearing," Lisaveta fumed, staring at him with bold contempt.

"Masha keeps telling me that. Does it matter when you command a large portion of the Tsar's army?" His grin was teasing, self-assured and provoking.

"You can't keep me captive," she intemperately said. Then she took another look at Stefan's purposeful stance and expression, noted the number of his mountain men and changed both her inflection and phrasing. "Will you really keep me captive?" she asked, struck suddenly by her absolute vulnerability.

"I'd prefer you as my guest." His voice was gallant once again and amiable. She was more beautiful than he remembered and he'd missed her terribly already in the few short hours she was gone. "I can promise you-" his words dropped to a husky whisper and he thought of the delight she brought him "-a pleasant holiday."

"I won't go of my own free will," Lisaveta stubbornly insisted against the overwhelming odds facing her, against his whispered promise and her own indiscreet volition, resisting to the last, because with Nadejda in the wings and the hundreds of other women in his past and future, why should she docilely become one of them?

His sigh was a well-bred exhalation of tolerance. "I didn't think you would," he said, reaching in, grasping her hand and pulling her forward as if she were weightless. "Close your eyes and think of the Empire," he cheerfully teased, lifting her out of the carriage and swinging her into his arms in a swish of silk petticoats and crisp pink linen. "You're absolved of all moral blame. Guaranteed. With my reputation I'll gladly take the role of abductor."

"You don't care what people think, do you?" Her face was very close to his as he held her in his arms, and she didn't know if the blazing sun or Stefan's closeness was the cause of the heat racing through her senses.

He thought for a moment of the fishbowl of scandal he'd grown up in and of all the scandals since. "Not really," he casually replied, not looking at her, striding purposefully toward Cleo.

"Do you care what people think of me?" she quietly asked.

He stopped for a moment as he was about to lift her onto the red padded, quilted leather saddle, his expression suddenly solemn. "My servants and troopers are trustworthy. Nothing will be said."

"And Nadejda?"

He considered briefly how he could protect her against that moral outrage. "Masha will help," he declared, understanding that stronger measures might be required in countering Taneiev perturbation. "She has great influence in society. And Alexander will champion you should you need more powerful protectors." He spoke of the Tsar in intimate personal terms, pledging her the full extent of his privileged status and position. His dark eyes were grave and very near as he held her in his arms. "Would you like that in writing?"

I'd like a license of sole possession, she inexplicably thought, so you'd be mine alone for always and ever. But then every woman he'd ever known, no doubt, reacted similarly. He was rare and beautiful and much too attractive in a million ways. He was going to be-was already-all-consuming and disastrous to her peace of mind. But since she couldn't conceivably have what she wanted, and he wouldn't welcome the true nature of her possessive impulse, she discarded utterance of her irrelevant whimsy and said instead, "You can't absolve a person's reputation by fiat."

"Yes, darling, you can." Swinging her up onto Cleo, he followed, then settled her across his lap. "If it's the Tsar's fiat," he said matter-of-factly. "Kiss me," he whispered, smiling down at her, his plans on track once again.

"Not with everyone looking." Lisaveta was shy yet and inexperienced in the ways of brazen and public courtship.

While Stefan preferred privacy for his amorous dalliance, it wasn't a requirement. "Then I'll kiss you," he said. And he did.

They rode for half a day over treacherous, almost impassable trails, climbing all the time, pausing occasionally on a rocky promontory to rest the horses, dismounting once to water the mountain ponies at an icy rushing stream. Portions of the trail were no more than a yard across and Lisaveta clung to Stefan through these passages, her eyes shut against the terrifying sight of the valley, distant and small a half mile below, then a mile below. Immune to the terrors shaking Lisaveta's nerves, Stefan was relaxed, joking with his men, exchanging stories and reminiscences in their native Kurdish, brushing Lisaveta's hair occasionally with a light kiss, smiling at her, soothing her when she shivered in his arms.

Late in the afternoon when the air had cooled considerably with the high mountain altitudes and the sun had begun its journey toward the horizon, the party reached a pine grove dappled with shadow, scented with pungent fragrance. Riding through the limpid, iridescent-shot sunlight and cool dimness, they came after some time upon a whitewashed lodge roofed in green glazed tile. The building was without systematic plan, all asymmetrical and sprawling with mullioned windows and decorative porches, vine-covered trellises and assorted bays that had the look of being added on by whim. It was perched picturesquely on a sloping escarpment that fell away beyond the lodge into the openness of the sky, its center portion graced by a landscaped courtyard through which a mountain stream, bordered by a carpet of flowers, ran.

It had the charming look of a fairy tale.

Out of its apricot-painted, vine-covered doorway a dark-haired young girl came running, cast, it seemed, for a part in the fairy tale. Her slender form, clad exotically in brilliant, luxurious Gypsy attire, was lithe as a nymph; her bare arms and legs and feet were the lush olive of her Romany heritage; her wildly curling tresses streaming out behind her shone like black silk.

"Stash, Stash, you're home!" she cried, her great dark eyes gleaming with delight, her arms thrown open wide in welcome.

Lisaveta stiffened in Stefan's arms the same instant he saw Choura's expression alter as she became aware of Lisaveta. Oh Lord, he thought, I forgot. "Don't move," he murmured to Lisaveta, cognizant of Choura's temper and her skill with a knife. In a rapid staccato delivery he spoke to Haci next. The dialect was unfamiliar to Lisaveta, but his intent was clear. His voice was gruff and exasperated. As Haci swiftly urged his horse forward to intercept Choura's forward dash, Lisaveta surveyed Stefan's impassive face. As Haci scooped the Gypsy girl up in one arm and rode out of the courtyard, out of sight behind an enormous stand of rhododendrons, Choura's screams echoing above the rustle of the wind in the pines, Lisaveta noted Stefan's air of apparent detachment. No more than an inconvenience-immediately dispatched.

"Will he drown her?" Lisaveta maliciously inquired. This was the common method of disposal for members of the Sultan's seraglio. "Or will I simply be added to your harem?"

Stefan was tired and hungry; he'd been riding for more than she hours after a night with little sleep and his fatigue was achingly real. He was not presently inclined, especially after finding Choura still vividly in residence, to politely accept sarcasm from the woman causing him all his discomfort. "I was saving your skin," he bluntly said, "protecting you from Choura's knife."

"I can protect myself, thank you," Lisaveta replied, haughty and incensed; Stefan had not only left a fiancée behind but had a woman in reserve here, as well.

"Not unless you move real fast," he sardonically murmured. "She could carve you up in under thirty seconds."

"Do women fight over you often?" Her barely contained fury was evident in her voice. It was enough to know her own feelings were disastrously involved-against her will and better judgment-but to see Stefan's women conveniently available wherever he lived, and to hear him plainly suggest they might fight a rival for his affection, was galling.

"No," he quietly said, his own self-control additionally provoking in face of her outrage. "Now if you'll excuse me briefly."

"And if I won't?" Her objection was anger only and having the last snappish word-or perhaps most of all, wishing she had the power he did to bend the world to his will.

He looked down at her for a long moment, his expression benign, as if an angry child were thwarting him. "Nakun will see you to my study," he said, neither answering her question nor acknowledging her challenge. "Please make yourself comfortable." With the merest nod he signaled one of his men.

"I don't want to make myself comfortable, Stefan." She tried to control her voice as he did, so she wouldn't sound so adolescent. "I want to go home. I refuse to be your…captive," she finished in sputtering frustration. "And if you think for a minute," she added, trying to squirm out of his steely grasp, "that I'm going to quietly submit to your goddamn-" her voice was rising now because he was beginning to smile "-suzerainty like some docile Gypsy girl-"

He laughed. Docile was the last word he would have chosen to describe Choura.

His laugh only further ignited Lisaveta's indignation. "I suppose a man who kept five Persian houris for his exclusive enjoyment at Kokand," she snapped, "finds this all amusing. But I refuse to be your entertainment!"

Good God, he thought, how far had that story traveled. But he only said in a calm tone, "You needn't get agitated. Accept my apologies for Choura. She was… er… an oversight. I'll straighten everything out and be back shortly."

"An oversights Her voice was almost a whisper. "Like a forgotten package, you mean?" Her golden eyes were the color of the sky before a thunderstorm. "Or an inconvenience?"

"Lord, Lise, relax. There's an explanation. I'll straighten things out."

"Haven't you been listening to anything I said?" Lisaveta cried. "I don't want everything straightened out, I don't want you to continue talking to me in that serenely undisturbed tone as though you were taking confession, and I do not wish to be here!" Each word was punctuated with a blow to his chest.

Stefan's troopers regarded Lisaveta's vehemence with varying degrees of amusement. They all viewed women as diversions to a warrior's life, and from appearances their Prince was going to be highly diverted when he took the Countess to bed.

At the moment, however, Stefan knew he had to deal with Choura first, and arguing with Lisaveta wasn't accomplishing any useful purpose. "Do I have to have you tied up?" he inquired in the placid tone that grated so on Lisaveta's nerves.

Her eyes opened wide in aghast speculation. He wouldn't, would he? She realized he was closely related to these Kurdish troopers with their wild and barbaric looks. He lived at times in their way under a warrior code, but did he actually mean "tied up" when he said it in that quiet tone? And if he did-the small unpleasant thought surfaced-for what purpose? "Tied up?" she blurted out, her breath unconsciously in abeyance, anticipating his answer.

"Will you accompany Nakun into the house or do you have to be restrained?" He could have been asking her if she preferred a lemon ice or champagne during a set change at a bail, for all the emotion in his voice.

Lisaveta glanced for a swift moment at the swarthy native tribesman dressed in black turban, tunic and full-cut trousers, standing patiently in his soft Asiatic boots at Stefan's side, waiting further orders. She rapidly took in the array of his weaponry: crossed bandoliers; saber belt and pistol holster; the shined and oiled new Winchester taken as booty from a dead Turk slung across his back; the matching set of silver-engraved daggers tucked into his belt. With the pragmatic deduction of an intelligent woman she murmured, "You needn't tie me."

"Splendid," Stefan cheerfully said, as though no one had been discussing bodily restraint, as if the topic of conversation were banal and unthreatening, as if the word splendid fitted this horrendous situation at all.

"I'll 'splendid' you," Lisaveta hissed, as Stefan lowered her into Nakun's arms, "just as soon as I get the chance."

Stefan's smile was wolfish. "In that case, I won't keep you waiting long." He touched her cheek with a caressing fingertip. "Darling…" But his voice when he spoke to Nakun the next moment was coolly commanding. "Lock the door," he said, "in my study, when you leave."