Golden Paradise (14 page)

"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 overriding 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.

F
ifteen 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.