Golden Paradise (48 page)

"Nothing perhaps was your fault except—"

"Except?"
Her pale eyes were amused, although her voice was coolly sardonic.

"Except for your choices of intellectual pursuit.
If not for your research on Hafiz, you would have been safely at home doing whatever women are supposed to do."

"Supposed to do?" Her sarcasm was a shade less sportive and her expression now demonstrably attentive.

He enjoyed the small sparks of fire in her eyes, reminded of their first night in Aleksandropol, when they'd amused themselves with various poems of Hafiz… when he'd first realized a woman could inflame his mind and soul as well as his senses. "Well, you know," he deliberately teased, "play the piano, embroider,
drink
tea and chatter."

"In about one minute, Prince Bariatinsky, you're going to be attacked." Lisaveta's voice was constrained and heated.

"How nice."
His drawl was unconstrained and mellow.

"And you'll be forced to retract that damnable drivel."

"And you're going to make me?"

"Yes."

"How nice," he said again, his smile wide.

Her own
grin suddenly matched his. "You don't mean it."

He shook his head. "Please don't ever embroider for me."

"I might be able to pick out a tune on the piano," she said playfully.

He groaned theatrically.

"So you don't mind, I gather," she went on in response to his groan, "I haven't any of the feminine repertoire."

"Darling, you're perfect."

"I am, aren't I?"

"And modest."

She grinned. "Like you." Suddenly she thought he might not have a son like him. Would he mind terribly? And how much would she mind if he minded if they had a daughter instead? "What if it's a girl?" she said.

"She'll be Princess Bariatinsky-Orbeliani," he softly replied, "and the church bells will ring for days."

"You wouldn't mind?" Her own voice was equally soft.

"She will be ours,
dushka,
or he will be ours, conceived in love and born in love and
raised
in love."

"Yes," she said, turning to slide her arms around his neck, wanting to always feel him close beside her. "In
all the
world…"

"…
our
child," he whispered.

Their kiss was fragrant with hope.
and
happiness and that special delight that comes so rarely in life between two lovers who have found at last the mirror of their souls. And when her mouth lifted from his long moments later, she briefly hugged him tighter as she thought how very close she'd come to losing him.

"You're getting stronger," he teased.

"What if Nikki hadn't heard Haci's name?" she said, ignoring his levity, her thoughts touched with a nightmarish shiver. "He wouldn't have gone looking for you." Her brows were drawn together, her golden eyes pained.

"I would have found my way back anyway," he quietly said, smoothing her creased brows with a gentle finger. He spoke with a quiet clear certitude.

Yes, she thought, you would.

"Although I'm eternally grateful," he said with a grin, "you were difficult enough to invite yourself
along,
and… grateful as hell—" his smile widened "—you talked me into marrying you."

He rolled away just in time to avoid her swinging fist, and before she could follow to strike him a blow for his impudence, he'd pulled the drawer open on the bedside table and brought out two very small packages. "Peace offerings," he said quickly, sitting up and holding them out to arrest Lisaveta's attack.

She was on her knees beside him, her arm raised, and his smile touched the small golden flecks in his dark eyes. "Clever man," she murmured, her arms slowly lowering to her side. "I adore presents." She smiled. "This may just save your life."

He grinned. "I know."

"If they're sufficiently extravagant," she said facetiously, sitting down beside him.

"It," he corrected. "The other's for baby." And he handed her a small wooden box tied with a red silk ribbon.

Lisaveta slid the ribbon free and lifted the hinged lid on the sandalwood box. Inside, nestled in a bed of crushed green velvet, was a necklace of gold with two jeweled charms attached. The charms were exquisite miniatures of desert towns, walled and minareted and architecturally detailed. Cloisonné and pounded gold alternated for brickwork on the walls, jewels were windows, the crenellated towers were tipped with precious platinum, the central gates opened on delicate crafted hinges. They were less than an inch in length and on the base of each a small plaque had been set. One read Bokhara—the other Samarkand.

Lisaveta's eyes filled with tears. Like the lover in Hafiz's poem, Stefan was giving her Bokhara and Samarkand.

"For the mole on thy cheek," he whispered, and when she lifted her head and smiled, he saw she was crying. "You don't like it," he teased, uncomfortable with tears.

She shook her head, unable to speak with the lump in her throat.

"You like it?" he said, uncertain of the exact meaning of her head shake.

She nodded.

"Good." He grinned in pleasure and relief. "Now if I kiss away all your tears and you give me a smile, I'll let you have baby's present, too." Bending over he took her hands in his, placed them on his shoulders and proceeded to gently kiss away her tears.

"I love you," Lisaveta murmured as his warm mouth moved over her cheeks, wishing it were possible to define the extent of her happiness, her mind stumbling over all the pleasure words, searching for one adequate to her feelings. "Is it like winning?" she asked obscurely, her voice hushed against Stefan's mouth as he nibbled at her lip.

"Mmm?" he said. She tasted like perfumed nectar or sugared sweets or both together, he thought, wondering if one lost one's mind when passionately in love. He'd never considered himself a fanciful man before.

"Is love like winning a battle for you?" she asked with more clarity, and sat up straighter so Stefan's mouth slid over her chin and into nothingness.

Leaning back on one elbow, he stretched out his lean body before answering. "It's better." His smile was the one his father had seen and his mother and few others—an open, contented, unblemished smile. "Is love like translating the perfect quatrain in Hafiz?" he asked then in analogous query.

"It's better," she said.

And they both smiled.

"You know what I'm feeling," Lisaveta declared.

Stefan nodded.
"Exactly.
I consider the sensations revolutionary and cataclysmic and also—"

"Balmy."

"How did you know?" He never used the word.

Nor did
she
. Lisaveta shrugged, then grinned and said, "Perhaps the shaman drums are beating."

"They have," he said with an answering grin, "done a damn good job of looking out for me.
And for Haci.
We both have futures again." Stefan's friend had recovered in the weeks since the journey to Kars and was back in his village, making plans for an April wedding. "And speaking of futures," he said, holding out the second present, "open this. I want to show you and baby something I hope you'll like."

When she opened the small box wrapped in pale yellow paper, she found a key inside—a door key.

"It's a surprise," Stefan said to her inquiring look. "Now, put this on and I'll show you." Handing her the cherry-red cashmere robe lying on the bed, he rose and, picking up his trousers from where he'd dropped them the previous night, slipped them on.

"I don't like surprises," Lisaveta protested as he pulled her from the bed.

"You'll like this one," he replied, drawing her with him across the room. "It's not for you anyway. It's a surprise for baby, but baby can't see it unless you cooperate." He grinned and put out his hand. "Give me the key."

When she handed it to him they walked the few remaining steps to the door opening into the adjoining room and he slid the key into the lock.

"We've been home only three days," Lisaveta said, bemused and curious, her voice tentative.

"I left instructions with Militza," Stefan said. Pushing the door open, he turned to watch Lisaveta's face.

She stood transfixed on the threshold. A nursery had been installed in the room next door, in the room she'd once occupied, and the previous space was completely transformed.

A lapis lazuli ceiling twinkling with diamond stars shone down on them.

The floor was carpeted in a field of yellow daisies.

The wallpaper was hand-painted with fairy tales.

And in an embrasure near a sunny window stood her cradle—the one that had always graced her old nursery at Rostov.

"My cradle," she exclaimed. The familiar swan shape was swathed in white gauze draperies suspended from a crowned canopy, exactly as she remembered.

"I thought you might like the next generation to sleep where you slept," Stefan said, his smile benevolent. "Come see your silver rattle." And tightening his grip on her hand, he tugged her along.

Her silver rattle, the one given as a gift, her mother had said, by Peter the Great and passed down in her family for more than a century, lay shining on the white silk coverlet.

"Even though you don't like surprises, do you approve of the decor? Feel free to change anything," Stefan quickly added, when Lisaveta didn't answer immediately.

"I like the stars," she said, turning to him with a smile.

"A personal whim.
I'm glad you approve."

"And everything else, too," she added, slipping her arms around his waist. "You're incredibly sweet and kind and I love you so much my heart sings."

"We could perform a duet then,
dushka,"
Stefan softly whispered, holding her lightly in his arms, "because my heart sings, too…and soon we can harmonize in trio," he added with a grin. Although his voice was buoyant, his words were underlaid with earnestness. "Tell me, Princess Bariatinsky, how you can't live without me."

"I can't," Lisaveta said simply.

"Nor can
I
without you."

It was a revelation to them both, independent as they
were,
that they could so conspicuously and extravagantly savor that constraint.

But in love, of course, it wasn't constraint but fascinating attachment, nor was it binding need so much as affectionate harmony.

And ardent passion, as well.

And fond desire.

"I may not soldier for the Tsar so much," Stefan told her.

"I didn't dare ask."

"I need you more," he quietly said.

"The Bariatinskys have served their share," Lisaveta said, tracing the deep scar running from Stefan's shoulder down his chest. His worst laceration wasn't completely healed yet and his arms were crisscrossed with saber scars. The two bullet wounds in his side would be permanently discolored because they'd been infected so long before adequate treatment. "And the peace treaty will be signed soon. Maybe there won't be any more wars."

He opened his mouth to answer and then decided against his cynical reply. It seemed out of place in the sunny, toy-filled nursery. "I hope not," he said instead. "Haci tells me it's time for us both to sire children and race our ponies."
His mouth quirked into a smile.
"It's not a bad idea…if you don't mind."

"And if I do?" Lisaveta replied, mischief in her eyes.

His answering grin was wolfish, his dark eyes seductive. He had no intention of devoting himself exclusively to his ponies; the object of his devotion was in his arms.

"We can talk about it," Lisaveta coquettishly said.

"Yes, talk," Stefan agreed in a tone of voice suggestive of several things other than talk. "May I invite you into my bedroom for some preliminary
discussion.
" He loosened her arms from around his waist.

"I might be interested," she replied, affecting demureness.

"Is there something that might further pique your interest, Madame Princess?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is." Her golden eyes were amused.

"Is it something, perhaps, more accessible in a different venue?" His body exuded warmth as she stood beside him, his lazy intonation heated in another way.

"In your bed, you mean."

"How astute."
His smile was gracious, as if he were familiar with offering paradise to young ladies. "But then your reputation as an intelligent woman is well-known."

"As is yours as a libertine…." There was a rich cordiality beneath her drollery.

"Perhaps we could merge our special…" He paused for a significant moment that seemed to raise the temperature noticeably. "…
attributes
in a mutually satisfying association," he finished.

"Kiss me and I'll decide," she said with a provocative lift of her shoulder.

He laughed. "You like to give orders," he murmured, one dark brow raised in speculation.