Whitefire (6 page)
Authors: Fern Michaels
Yuri's dark eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the slovenly Kat lean back on the rough-hewn chair. The Kat's eyes were cold and unreadable. His body tipped precariously on the wooden chair as he eyed the Russian, daring him to dispute what he said. Yuri felt nauseated as the man's odor reached him. He smelled of stale horseflesh and his own dirty sweat, and the fumes of vodka were strong enough to set the room on fire. His coarse, homespun clothing and mud-crusted boots were those of a fighting Cossack. This fearless leader of men, this awesome breeder of horseflesh, was no different from his men. He looked the same, he dressed the same, and he smelled the same.
“I shall give your message to the Czar . . . exactly as stated,” Yuri said coolly. “I would like to hear the story of the horsesâthat is, if you wouldn't mind telling me. There are many hours to get through till dawn, when I inspect them.” What he didn't say was that he had no desire to sleep in the moldy-looking feather bed that was to be his. Besides, it was something to help while away the time till the old man was sodden, and then he could take the beautiful Katerina outside to some grassy spot and unleash his violent pain.
With supreme effort he managed to keep his eyes averted from the tawny-skinned Katerina during the meal. He felt the amber, catlike eyes on him, and knew the Kat was aware of it also. He would have to be careful. She was probably being saved for one of those smelly oafs in the horse pens. Yuri's mouth tightened as he visualized her soft, honeyed skin being caressed by some filthy, sweaty hand. He had to force himself to remain seated, his face schooled to show nothing of his thoughts: of one of those rancid, evil faces with the thick, slobbering lips salivating over her naked body.
He was saved from further thought when the Kat got off his seat, pulled aside a curtain, and brought forth a jug of vodka. He wiped his hand across his heavy beard as he plopped the jug on the table, with a dirty hand motioning that Yuri should take the first drink. There weren't any glasses. Yuri raised the heavy jug to his lips and drank deeply.
The older man's eyes registered shock when the young Russian set the jug down, precisely on the same spot he lifted it from. His eyes didn't water, and he wasn't coughing and sputtering.
Yuri grinned as he stared at the Cossack. “My guts aren't on fire. I've been drinking vodka since I was six years old. I admit this,” he said, pointing to the jug, “has the kick of one of your stallions, but I've had worse.”
The Kat laughed. “When the jug is finished and if you are still on your feet, then, and only then, will I tell you about my horses.” He brought the jug to his lips and drank with deep gurgling sounds.
Yuri took his turn, to the amazement of Katerina, who was watching with wide, frightened eyes. Why was her father doing this? Why was he pretending to be this . . . this dirty, unkempt, uncultured man? He was up to something, and she would have to stay in the kitchen till she found out what it was. Surely he wouldn't kill the Russian, or would he? She had never seen him in this sort of a mood before.
Yuri drank and set the jug down, a patient look on his face.
The Kat took another long, gurgling drink and handed the jug to the young Russian. “Drink as I drink,” he said harshly. “There's more where that came from. Half vodka and half blood runs in my veins. What runs in yours, Russian?”
“Russian blood,” Yuri said curtly as he brought the jug to his lips.
“Fetch another jug, Katerina,” her father said, never taking his eyes from the young man sitting across the table from him.
Katerina withdrew behind the curtain and brought out a jug, placing it on the table with a loud thump to show her disapproval. She looked at her father with contempt and at Yuri with suspicion. The Russian didn't have a chance. Her father would probably trick him into confessing an ulterior motive once Yuri could not think logically anymore. She walked from the room, disgust written in the straightness of her back and her firm, hard gait. And they said women were fools!
Katerina looked at the star-filled night and felt saddened. Spring was a time for lovers and she was alone. The coming months of summer would pass quickly and soon it would be time to take the mares back to the Carpathians and settle in for the long, cold winter. I survived after all; I managed to get through spring with my secret intact, and I can get through summer and winter the same way, she thought bitterly. The thoughts of the new colts and fillies that would be born did not help to dispel the gloom. What was her father up to? What did the Russian have in his mind? Why did she constantly think of the Mongol of the steppe? What was it about the young Russian that appealed to her? If only she knew what was in the soldier's mind. Whatever it was, he would be no match for her father.
Would Yuri seek her out after the drinking was over? Would he be able to handle himself, or would he be like the others when they drank vodka for hours on end? Would he want to make love to her as she wanted him to? Would he be the one whose eyes would understand when she told him she was not a virgin?
Katerina walked for what seemed like hours. When she returned to the hut, she wasn't surprised to see four jugs sitting on the table and her father talking freely of the horses. She let her eyes wander toward Yuri and then to her father. She closed the door behind her as she gave Yuri one last, lingering look, which he did not return.
Katerina settled herself on a bench outside the door and listened as her father disclosed how he came to be called the Kat.
Quarts of vodka let words tumble freely from the Kat's mouth. “I'll tell you about my beautiful horses,” he said, slurring his words. “Do you know how long it takes and how difficult it is to breed pure whites? Do you know how many generations it has taken to breed this horse with that horse and end with stallions like Whitefire and his son, Snowfire?”
Yuri drew in his breath and leaned his elbows on the simple plank table, his eyes keen, his ears alert. “Tell me,” he said quietly.
The Kat laughed. “First more vodka. I'll drink and then you drink.” He reached for the jug in the center of the table. Both men drank heartily, but it was Yuri who replaced the earthen bottle in the same spot it had been taken from. His hand was steady, although his head reeled. “Go on about the horses,” he urged.
“It began long ago with the Przhevalski horse and . . . and another horse. Would you like to know what we did?” he baited the young Russian.
“Of course, but only if you want to tell me,” Yuri replied nonchalantly.
“Do you wonder how I got to be named the Kat?” Yuri nodded. “My father, his father, and his father before him had a knack for handling stallions. One day my great-great-grandfather was sent to the barn to watch the horses. He was but a lad, and his father told him he couldn't leave until he understood the animals. My great-great-grandfather sat on a stool and watched the horses eat and he watched them sleep. He talked to them as his father talked to them. The story goes that he stayed in the barn for two days and two nights and still he didn't understand what his father expected of him.
“With nothing to occupy his time, save watching and talking to the horses, he noticed a cat wander through the stalls, gently rubbing against the horses' legs and purring softly and contentedly. The stallions quieted immediately, as did the rest of the horses. They lowered their heads to the ground while the cat purred and nuzzled their noses. My great-great-grandfather learned from the cat how to touch and how to speak to them.”
“An amazing story,” Yuri said quietly.
“And now you wish to know the secret, eh, my young friend,” the Kat said drunkenly. He slapped the Russian on the arm and started to speak. “The secret is . . . is . . .” He stopped. “I'll tell it to you this way,” the shrewd Cossack went on. “There is an old Arab proverb that says: the fleetest of horses is the chestnut, the most enduring the bay, the most spirited the black, the most blessed the one with the white forehead. That is the secret, my young friend.”
“Is it!” breathed a puzzled Yuri, who dared not ask one question.
“You fool, did you think for one moment that I was so drunk I would tell you our secret? Better men than you, my friend, have tried and died for their efforts. Fool!” He pushed the liquor toward the Russian. “Have a drink.”
Yuri rose from the table and walked to the door. As his hand touched the latch, the Cossack thundered, “I said have another drink!”
Yuri turned, his eyes full of hate. “I don't drink with liars,” he said softly as he left the room, the latch clicking softly behind him.
The Kat picked up the jug and sent it crashing against the wall. “Fool! Better men than you have tried and died for their efforts, just as you will!” he shouted over and over, until his eyes grew heavy. Finally he lowered his head onto his folded arms and slept.
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Katerina sensed Yuri approaching. Drawing in her breath, she turned to meet him and rushed into his arms, welcoming him with her whole being. “I've been waiting,” she said simply.
“I know,” he said huskily. “I'm here now.” He pulled her into his arms in a hard embrace before she could utter another word. His lips crushed hers, driving the breath from her body as she pressed willingly against him. Yuri's arms tightened around her. His long muscular legs, next to hers, drove her back till she rested against the gnarled old tree where she had been sitting. His hands caressed her back, her breasts, the flatness of her stomach. He lifted his mouth from hers and looked deeply into her eyes in the bright moonlight. “You're so beautiful,” he said hungrily as his mouth opened her lips, demanding more and still more from her straining body. She felt his hands inside the looseness of her sarafan, her breasts becoming alive under his touch. His strong hands caressed the warm, bare flesh till she moaned in delight.
Suddenly they were on the ground, the grass soft and cool. Fumbling, with shaking hands, she removed her clothing while Yuri did the same. When their nude bodies met, low moans escaped them both as his lips crushed hers, his body pressed hers, demanding more.
Crying softly with desire, she lay beside him as Yuri explored her body, which was pliant to his every demand. Her senses soared and whirled about her as she opened her mouth to his gently exploring tongue, her taut breasts boring into his hard, muscular chest. She moved invitingly beneath him, striving to make them one, always one.
Unable to bear the exquisite torture, she parted her thighs, and he entered her, gently at first and then with deep plunges, her pain a momentary thing as she was caught up in the passion of the pressure within her. Wave after wave of passion engulfed her as Yuri's violent pain was released to meet hers in the cascade of their emotions.
They lay quietly, each content to feel the other's nearness, neither speaking. From time to time Katerina reached out to touch his arm to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
As she nestled herself in the comforting hold of his arm, she said quietly, “I'll miss you when you return to Moscow.”
“I'll return for you at summer's end. Promise that you will wait for me.”
Katerina looked into his eyes and wanted to tell him of the time on the steppe when the Mongol took her by force. Something stopped her just as she was about to speak. She remembered her own thoughts: when I look into his eyes, I'll know if he is the man who will understand and forgive. Some instinct, some warning, told her that Yuri was not that man. He wanted her, but was it for now or would it be for always? “I'll wait for you,” she said huskily.
Yuri raised himself on one elbow. “I've bedded many women, but none like you. I think I loved you the moment I saw you standing in the house, waiting for me. I'll love you forever, for all eternity.”
“Where will we go, what will we do?” Katerina asked quietly.
“Don't concern yourself, I'll take care of you. I have many plans to make. When I return, all will be in readiness. Would you like to live in Kiev with a houseful of servants, and have fine clothes and fine food?”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured happily. There was no need for her to tell him that in the mountains during the winter months they lived a life of royalty, in the tradition of the Vaschenkos. No need to reveal that her father was not what he seemed. Later she would tell him. Later she would let him know everything except her secret. For now, this was her timeâhers and Yuri's.
They slept, their naked flesh entwined on the grassy copse, far from the house.
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Yuri's selection of the horses was slow and thorough. Katerina sat, unobserved, willing the tedious process to be over. Unable to keep her shining eyes off the muscular Russian, she followed his every move. All she could think of was the velvety night and how it felt to have Yuri's arms embrace her.
She watched as the tall Russian shook his head over something, his jaw tight and angry. Even from where she sat, she could hear his harsh complaint to her father.
“The agreement was two hundred horses from the stallion Whitefire and the mare Wildflower, not one hundred and fifty, not one hundred, but two hundred. Two hundred pure whites. The other eight hundred were to salve your ego. Do you take me for a fool?” he demanded angrily. “The purpose of this agreement was for the whites.” Angrily he waved a long arm at the black and russet horses that roamed the pens. “What good are they in the snow? The Czar wants only the whites. You agreed, you gave your word. If you wish to renege on the agreement, then I must cancel the bargain we made. Two hundred pure whites or nothing,” he said adamantly.
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