Golden Paradise Page 10

  "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 o
ver­riding 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.

  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 morn
ing 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.