Silver Nights (13 page)

“Khan!” Black dots swam before her eyes. “Dead? Has he
had him shot?” It was the worst she could think of, but the muzhik shook his head.

“It would be better so. The prince has sold him.”

“Sold him?” She stared, aghast. Khan could not serve another master, could not be tended by other than Boris Mikhailov, who had just spoken the truth. The stallion would be better shot than broken to another will. Because he would have to be broken; he could not be bought by kindness, and he was far too mighty a creature to be mastered by the puny strength of a mere man. “Sold him?” she repeated in a whisper. “To whom, Boris?”

Despair darkened his features. “To a horse trader, for three imperials.”

Thirty rubles! He had sold that priceless animal for a mere thirty rubles to a horse trader, one of the notorious breed who would not care what he had bought for such a miserable sum, would care only about reselling him. And to do that, Khan would have to be beaten and starved into submission, for no one would pay good money for the wild beast he would appear to be in unfamiliar hands.

“No…no, it cannot be!” Sophie shook her head in disbelief. “You must be mistaken, Boris Mikhailov.”

“I wish I were,” the muzhik said gently. “But I was present at the sale. Holy Mother forgive me, but I handed Khan over to him.”

“You cannot blame yourself for that,” she said dully. “I know you would have had no choice.” She turned away from the pain in his eyes. So this was what her husband had been so anxious she should hear. He would have known, also, how much it would hurt Boris to be the one to tell her.

Abruptly, she was engulfed with rage, a blind fury welling up from the depths of her soul to vanquish all thoughts of caution, all fear of the man who controlled her existence. The temper that she had struggled so strenuously to contain in the last weeks burst its restraints, and she was running toward the house, catching up her skirts to free her stride. She ran through the house, taking the stairs two at a time, heedless of the amazed
stares, the forest fire of astonished whispers she left in her wake. Without ceremony, she burst into Prince Dmitriev's study.

Adam, swinging around from the window, recognized the Sophia Alexeyevna he had first met, the fiery creature who had turned into a Fury when he caught her bridle.

Paul Dmitriev saw a woman he had not seen before. The dark eyes were almost black in their outrage, glaring in her whitened face, her mouth drawn back in a grimace of rage.

“How dare you!” The door crashed against the wall as she flung it from her. “How dare you sell Khan? How could you condemn such a beautiful creature to a slow death? What has
he
done that he should deserve such a fate? You had as well sell
me
to a horse trader as a Cossack stallion. I cannot imagine a more
stupid
vengeance…mindless to sacrifice such a beast—”

“Be silent!” thundered Prince Dmitriev, recovering from the shock of this incredible outburst. “You forget yourself.” His voice had dropped to an icy, dangerous calm. “If you imagine I will tolerate such a disgraceful public outburst from my wife, Sophia Alexeyevna, you are much mistaken.”

Sophie's eyes darted toward Adam, who stood like a graven image beside the window, his expression completely impassive. “If you will excuse me,” he said now, bowing to his general. “I am
de trop
.” Without another word, he left the study, abandoning Sophie to Dmitriev's anger even as she took an involuntary half step toward him.

“You will go to your bedchamber and calm yourself,” the prince now said with the same icy calm.

The anger ran from her, to be replaced by a bleak hopelessness. “Khan belonged to me,” she said in a low voice. “You had no right—”

“You will not talk to me about my rights,” he snapped. “You are my wife, and you may count as yours only those possessions I permit. I will dispose of any others as I see fit. Now, go to your bedchamber. Quite clearly, you are too overwrought to attend the countess's soirée this evening. You will keep to your bed until I consider you have fully recovered from this extraor
dinary outburst. If you oblige me to summon the physician, I shall have no hesitation in doing so.”

Sophie turned and left without another word. In the Wild Lands, she had learned the wisdom of accepting defeat. It did not mean that one could not fight again, and her grandfather had told her to apply the rules of the Wild Lands to her new life. Her grandfather…She had not wanted to worry him with her tale of woe, had wanted to see this through herself, but he had told her that he would not send her without armor into this new world; if she had need of him she had only to send Boris Mikhailov with a message. Now she knew that she would fall back on that weapon in her armory. She would appeal to the old prince, who would be outraged by such an inhumane and pointless act as had been perpetrated this day.

But she could not put the plan into effect for the moment. She must keep to her bed as ordered, endure her grief, mourn in silence for the loss of a part of herself, show her husband the face of submission and docility until she was released from the imprisonment of her room.

 

Adam, hardly able to contain his own rage at the senseless violence of Dmitriev's revenge, left the general's palace, haunted by the knowledge of Sophie's pain. He found Boris Mikhailov in the stable yard and hailed him, credibly imperious. “A word with you, fellow!”

Boris touched his forelock. “Yes, lord.” He hastened over to the count, bowing. There was nothing in either the summons or the demeanor of the count or the muzhik to draw remark from the other serfs in the yard, who, after a casual look at their master's aide-de-camp, continued with their own tasks.

“What do you know of this horse trader?” Adam asked softly.

“From Georgia,” Boris replied as softly. “Said he was taking the road to Smolensk this afternoon with a string of horses. Seemed mighty pleased with himself.” The black eyes hardened. “Had good reason to be, with such a buy as Khan for three imperials.”

“Three imperials!” Adam was betrayed into a gasp. Then he recovered himself. “The road to Smolensk?”

Boris nodded, glancing up at the sun. “Left about four hours ago, lord. A fast horse would catch him in half that; a string of horses, some of 'em half-broke, isn't easy to manage at speed.”

“What do I need to know to manage Khan on a leading rein?” The question was clipped, businesslike, and received a similar response.

“Keep him on the left side. He's inclined to shy at sudden movements.” Boris tapped out the factors on his forefinger. “He doesn't like a strange hand on his bridle, so he'll probably put you to the test. Keep the rein short. When he shies don't tug him, just hold him and pray. If he's going to take off, there's nothing you can do to stop him, anyway.” Boris frowned, thinking. “Oh, and Sophia Alexeyevna always talks to him. Swears it calms him.” He shrugged, smiling slightly. “I don't know if another voice would work as well, though.”

“My talent for mimicry is somewhat underdeveloped,” observed Adam dryly. “Let us hope I am not required to attempt it.”

“And the princess…?” Boris asked hesitantly.

“Knows nothing of this, yet. She has fallen foul of her husband and I cannot help her in any other way, Boris Mikhailov.” Frustration scudded across the lean, aristocratic features. “A man's wife is his own.” Except that that rule had not applied to his own wife—the faithless Eva and her unknown lover. Why the devil should he adhere to…No! He would not repeat the wrongs that had been done to him. But the reiterated decision seemed to have lost some of its force under his fury at Dmitriev's senseless viciousness, under Adam's overpowering need to help Sophie in whatever way he could, under the memory of their shared declaration in the hour before dawn.

“I will keep Khan in my own stables,” he said now. “If you have the opportunity, tell Sophia Alexeyevna that I
will
succeed in this. I will redeem Khan from the trader; he will be quite safe with me.”

Not for one minute did it occur to Boris Mikhailov to doubt the count's statement. If this man set out to do something, he would succeed. “I'll tell her, lord. For all her fortitude, such cruelty will have pierced deep.”

Adam, thinking of the virago who had confronted Dmitriev, smiled despite his bleakness. “It will take more than the general to break her, Boris.”

“Let's hope you're right,” the muzhik replied somberly. “Anyone can be broken with sufficient time. His Highness has all the time he needs, seems to me.”

Adam, who could find no words of comforting contradiction, left immediately, taking the road to Smolensk in pursuit of the horse trader.

Boris Mikhailov stood frowning in the stable yard. He had not confided his suspicion that the general had some reason of his own, some reason from the dark past, for his treatment of Sophia Alexeyevna. What could be gained by revealing his unsubstantiated hunch either to Sophia Alexeyevna or to the count?

 

Prince Dmitriev went alone to Countess Narishkina's soirée, offering a bland excuse for his wife's absence with a severe migraine. He stayed for an hour, was charming, accepting renewed congratulations on his wedding with soft-spoken thanks, smiled gratefully when he was told by various prominent ladies that they would call upon his wife in the next week, murmured how pleased Sophia Alexeyevna would be, and how grateful he would be for their interest in his young and inexperienced wife, who was in need of much guidance. Then, like the most uxorious husband, he pleaded his sick wife's bedside and left.

Once home, he went to his own apartments, where he prepared himself for the night. Then, clad in his dressing gown, he entered his wife's bedchamber without ceremony. The room was in semidarkness, only a night light burning on the table, the curtains drawn tight around the bed. Twitching aside the bed curtains, he looked upon the pale, drawn face of the Princess Dmitrievna.

“You look like a sick cat,” he commented coldly, untying the girdle of his robe. “It would appear that I was not altogether guilty of untruth when I said a headache had kept you from this evening's dissipations.”

“As it happens, I am not well,” Sophie murmured, looking at him through half-closed eyes. “The time of the month…”

Dmitriev's face darkened with annoyance. He retied his girdle with ominous deliberation. “Clearly we must try harder, my dear. And you must strive for a little more composure. These violent outbursts cannot be good for you.” He left the chamber, and Sophie heard the key grate in the lock of her door.

She turned her face into her pillow, fighting the tears, the despairing hopelessness that could only worsen this living death, the desperate longing for Adam. How she ached to be held again in love and tenderness, to feel again the wondrous blossoming deep in her body beneath the sweet caress of his lips. What would it be like to share with Adam this cold, hurtful act in which she participated with her husband? There could be no comparison. But she would never find out. The tears flowed despite her efforts, tears for herself, for her grandfather, lonely at Berkholzskoye, so many tears for Khan, tears for Adam and for a love that could only wither unnurtured.

The door was not unlocked until noon of the following day. She did not bother to ring the bell for the little maidservant, being fairly confident that for as long as her door remained locked, any summons would be unanswered. The mortification of being ignored by the servants, even though they would be doing so on her husband's orders, was more than she could bear. She would pretend to be asleep, lost in peaceful oblivion. No one, least of all her husband, should have the satisfaction of thinking she might be suffering from this neglect.

When the key sounded again in the lock, she propped herself up against the pillows, schooling her expression to one evincing an anxious desire to please. “Good day, Paul.” She greeted him with the hesitant smile she had perfected over the weeks, as if the circumstances were quite ordinary.

He fitted the key in the inside lock again, before approaching the bed. “You had better summon your maid to help you dress for dinner. I am expecting guests.”

“Guests!” She could not control the surprised exclamation. “Count Danilevski, you mean?”

“I do not consider my aide-de-camp to be a guest,” her husband informed her. “When he dines here it is simply because we have work to do.”

Sophie, afraid that she had been on the verge of betraying herself by that incautious question, dropped her eyes to the coverlet, murmuring meekly, “Yes, I do see that, Paul. How foolish of me.”

He regarded her with a degree of suspicion. Until yesterday, he would not have doubted the sincerity of her meek demeanor, but now he was unsure. However, she had suffered some severe blows since then: the loss of her horse, denial of a social visit for which she must have longed after the long period of isolation, then the mortification of this imprisonment of which she must have known the servants were aware.

He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “As it happens, my guests are regimental colleagues newly returned from an expedition to Kazan. Count Danilevski will also be joining us. I trust the role of hostess will not be beyond you.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You will not be required to participate in the conversation beyond the formalities, and you will leave the table as soon as the meal is over.”

Rebellious fury welled anew at these insulting instructions better suited to a child at an adult's table or a poor relation dependent upon charity. She kept her eyes down, stilling the angry trembling of her fingers, concentrating on the singing thought that Adam would be present throughout the interminable tedium. Perhaps they could steal a glance, exchange a comment that would carry a meaning apparent only to the two of them.