Golden Paradise (39 page)

"Inherent politeness," he teased.

"And you've only been
awake
thirty seconds."

"That, too."
His grin was engaging, although with the dark stubble shading his jaw he had the look of a brigand.

"And I'd better shave," he added, as though he could read her thoughts, his fingers trailing over the contour of his face, "as soon as we eat."

Lisaveta smiled. "You have no patience."

"Should I have?" He asked the question with idle casual-ness as he reached for the bellpull.

Thinking for a moment of Stefan's particular style of living, Lisaveta said, still smiling, "Perhaps it's too late for you."

"Would you like breakfast or lunch, darling, this time of day?" he inquired, knowing it was years too late for him to learn patience.

Rolling over on her back and stretching, Lisaveta teasingly asked, "Are all you Orbelianis the same?"

"No, of course not," Stefan replied, ignoring the point of her question. "Some are shorter—the women, you understand—and some are older or younger—"

She smacked him with the flat of her hand on his stomach and his fingers closed around her wrist before she could strike him again. "Save that energy for later, darling," he said very low, his dark eyes amused. "You're going to need it."

Breakfast was sumptuous, served in bed, and as promised, their renewed energy was put to good use. The afternoon sped by, as did the evening, in amorous pursuits, their conversation lighthearted and without substance or topicality.

Neither spoke of the future or the war, although the assault on Kars loomed specterlike in both their thoughts, the reality only days away. The terrifying possibility Stefan might die was too awful for Lisaveta to allow herself to think about, but her sleep that night was restless. Stefan lay awake after she finally dozed off, holding her in his arms, his mind on the complexity of the attack. Not unusual, he reminded himself; he always detailed the maneuvers of his troops on an internal battlefield, considering alternative options in endless possibilities. But this time he experienced an unfamiliar twinge of anxiety, no more than an infrequent dragging beat of disquietude, but that break in his concentration kept him awake because it was new.

They reached Vladikavkaz a day and a half later at four in the morning, ten hours eliminated from the normal run, the engine firebox red-hot and glowing like a live coal. Even while the train was still rolling to a stop, a harsh banging erupted on the railcar door. Stefan, who had been dressed since midnight, swiftly opened the door, cast one glance over the troop of horsemen prancing restlessly beyond the station platform and knew he faced serious problems.

"Hussein Pasha is only three days from Kars!" the young lieutenant cried. His salute was perfunctory, and forgetting in his apprehension that he was addressing a corps commander, he added, "You
must
come immediately!"

Stefan almost smiled at the lieutenant's youthful agitation, and had his announcement been less ominous, he might have. How the hell had Hussein Pasha done it?
was
his next incredulous thought. The land he'd crossed was barren of water or fodder for his horses. A march at that speed and under those conditions must have been lethal to half the Turkish men and mounts. Stefan, as familiar with that country as he was with his own palace grounds, knew just how great that suffering would have been. But regardless of the possible state of Hussein Pasha's army, Stefan's immediate concern was beating him to Kars.

"Give me a minute," he said to the lieutenant, "and
bring
up my horse."

Standing outside the bedroom door a moment later, he debated whether to wake Lisaveta; she'd slept poorly and had only fallen into a peaceful slumber near morning. He felt guilty waking her, but he found he couldn't leave without holding her one last time, without, he thought, offering what might be a final goodbye to her and his child.

Her cheek was rosy warm to his lips and she only stirred at his caress, but when he sat on the bed, her eyes slowly opened and she smiled before she remembered.

"I have to go," he said softly. "Hussein Pasha is three days from Kars."

"Oh, dear," she whispered, her quiet exclamation full of fear, her gaze quickly taking in his uniform and readiness.

"I've only a minute… they're bringing up my mount. Masha will take care of you. An escort will see you to Tiflis. I love you,
dushka,
with all my heart…and the child, too," he finished in a husky whisper.

She tried to steady her voice before she spoke, knowing he had to leave, knowing the Empire relied on his cavalry corps to help win Kars, knowing her wishes were incidental to the tide of events sweeping over them. "Go with God, Stepka," she said, reaching for him, her voice trembling, her tears spilling over.

He crushed her in his arms, his own eyes wet with unshed tears. "You're my life,
dushka,"
he whispered into the softness of her hair. "Take care of our child—" he steadied his voice with effort "—and don't ever forget what we had together…"

His words frightened her, as if he wouldn't be with her to raise their child, as if he wouldn't be coming back to her. "Be careful," she cried, clinging to him, wanting to hold him forever, wanting to know he was safe in her arms.

"I never take chances," he lied. And when she looked up at his ambiguous phrasing, tears streaming down her face, he added, "I promise, darling, to be careful." His kiss was gentle, honey sweet.

Her mouth tasted of tears and he wished for a moment life weren't so fragile. But the outcome of his race south hung in the balance and with it, perhaps, the future of Kars…and his own future. As a soldier he'd always accepted the uncertainty of life; as a risk taker, he understood it better than most. But as a husband now and a father-to-be, suddenly he felt exposed and unguarded, the delicate balance between victory and death a precarious distinction he'd never considered before. He'd never questioned the duration of his golden halo of protection.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"I'll be right there," he said. "I have to go," he added in a quiet voice, his simple words intense with feeling. Gently unclasping Lisaveta's arms, he pulled away, gazed at her for a moment more and without speaking stood. The room smelled of her fragrance, and while his men waited he found himself regarding her a few seconds more, as if he were memorizing her image against an uncertain future.

Lisaveta's golden eyes were still soft with sleep, her cheeks flushed a delicate rose, and her lips where he'd just kissed her were still slightly parted, lush like perfect ripe fruit. She was nude beneath the covers, her smooth shoulders and arms and the rise of one breast framed by the blue silk coverlet. She was perfect beauty, she was his adored wife, the mother of his unborn child, and he had to leave her.

How hard it was this time to return to the campaigns that had been until then his entire life. How hard it was to leave her. He shut his eyes briefly and drew in a slow fortifying breath. "I love you," he said in almost a whisper, and then turning, he strode from the room.

Moments later he was mounted, his revolver belted at his waist, his Kurdish knives tucked into the wide leather belt, handy to his reach. He'd checked the ammunition in his rifle in an automatic reflexive action before slinging it across his back. After speaking a few quiet words to Cleo, he took the black burkah offered him and threw it over his shoulders against the predawn chill. Wheeling his horse, he glanced at his mounted escort arrayed in faultless formation behind him.

"Ready, Excellency," the lieutenant replied to Stefan's silent inquiry.

He took one last look back at the lighted window in his railway car, his features expressionless, then bending forward slightly, whispered to Cleo. Her ears twitched as if in answer and she took two prancing steps. The road to Tiflis was familiar to her, and as Stefan straightened in his saddle, she plunged forward.

Lisaveta cried while Stefan's troop galloped down the tree-shaded boulevards of Vladikavkaz and clattered over the Terek
bridge
; she cried as they rode across the valley plain and began climbing toward the Tomar pass. She cried great gulping sobs as the horses dug in to ascend the sharp incline, their hooves throwing up the rough black gravel of the area. With Stefan riding off to war she might never see him again. He could be dead in a few days, and… if they had a child… Fresh tears of fear and self-pity poured down her cheeks.

But as the sun came up over Guz Damur, falling alike on Stefan's mounted company and his railcar at Vladikavkaz, Lisaveta shakily wiped her tears away, trying at the same time to steady her breathing. Sitting up, she pushed the covers aside. She realized she could cry a thousand years if she wished but it wouldn't bring Stefan back or make him safe. Militza was waiting for her in Tiflis; Stefan wanted her to continue south to his home and stay there with his aunt until the war was over. Although she would have preferred a site closer to Kars, when she'd tried to persuade him the previous night he'd been adamantly opposed. The front could dramatically change, he'd said. Cavalry flanking movements often swung deep and
wide,
and he didn't want her in jeopardy of capture by the Turks or Bazhis. Aleksandropol was too close to the border, offering little security should the Russians be pushed back. And after her capture last summer, her cavalier attitude about the ease with which one could travel through a war zone had been forever altered. Stefan was right of course, Tiflis was safer, but knowing that didn't make her any less miserable.

First she had to dress. Walking over to the built-in closets opposite the bed, Lisaveta selected a beige serge traveling gown trimmed in black silk braid, one of her numerous trousseau garments. She washed next in the small but luxuriously appointed bathroom adjoining Stefan's bedroom and found herself somewhat cheered by the hand-painted tiles decorating the walls. The glazed tile was a misty blue-green, reminding one of the color of the sea, and at eye level was adorned with a decorative border of frolicking sea creatures. Stefan had names for most of them and she smiled, remembering his facetious introductions of sea life. She felt better when she smiled, and as she dressed her melancholy lifted from the gloominess she'd wallowed in an hour ago. Stefan had always led a charmed life; he was a competent soldier, a brilliant soldier. She'd dwell instead on the positive. So saying, she took one last look in the mirror and opened the door into the small corridor.

When she walked into the parlor a dozen steps later, three officers and Stefan's valet, Ellico, were standing at attention.

She instantly received four very correct bows as though she were a person of consequence, a natural result, she realized, of being married to the Tsar's favorite commander, a sudden transformation from her unpretentious past. How long had they been standing there at attention?
she
wondered with a nervous start. What if she'd decided to wander in in her chemise—or
less.
Their entire journey had been devoid of servants save for the times food was left on trays, and she hadn't realized the absence of servants was on Stefan's orders. They were present, of course, for Stefan traveled
en prince
as a matter of course; they had simply been out of sight.

"Is Her Excellency ready to travel?" a young subaltern inquired with deference, his white uniform immaculate, his expression studiously reserved.

"Yes, thank you. Do I need a wrap?"

"His Excellency has seen to everything, Your Excellency." he replied, homage and awe in his tone.

Stefan wasn't a mere mortal to this young officer and she, by association, took on a similar distinction. Would she ever learn to be comfortable with such formality and pomp? She was used to building her own camp fire and cooking if necessary when she and Papa traveled with a minimum of guides to some of the more remote areas of the Trans-Caucasus. She certainly was familiar with seeing to her own comfort and care.

"Please call me Lisaveta," she said, in an effort to reduce the rigid deportment, her smile winning.

Her statement apparently stunned the three young officers who'd been entrusted by Stefan with "the most precious woman in the world," to quote their
superior,
and none of them was sure how to respond to such an irregular suggestion.

"I would prefer it," Lisaveta quietly said, as the surprised silence lengthened.

"Yes, Your Excellency…er…madame…that is…Lisaveta." The poor man struggled with his sense of protocol and Lisaveta's wishes.

"Stefan would wish me to be comfortable," Lisaveta added, and with her words, the supreme stamp of approval was assured.

All three officers smiled. Stefan's valet smiled.

"As you wish," their spokesman said, and all four bowed in precision.

Stefan's valet, dressed in blue silk robe and red turban of his Kurdish clan, stepped forward, a small wrapped parcel in his hand. "From His Excellency, Your Excellency," he said, his sense of propriety undiminished. His family had been personal servants to endless generations of Orbelianis and familiarity would be unthinkable, but his smile was genuine and his relayed message touching in its sensitivity. "His Excellency, the Prince, wishes you a safe and happy journey, Your Excellency." The package he placed in her hand was wrapped in blue velvet and tied with gold twine, and Lisaveta fought back her tears at Stefan's thoughtfulness even in the haste of his departure.