Silver Nights (19 page)

He flicked the reins, and the sleigh moved forward slowly, the wooden blades whispering across the snow. Steel blades, of course, would have increased the pace considerably, but then Paul Dmitriev had not been interested in expediting his wife's journey. That reminder brought a resurgence of the fierce hatred Adam bore the barbarous Dmitriev. It was not a constructive emotion at the moment, however. He was more interested in the other side of the coin of passion—in love, and the expression of that love in passion's form.

Within the sleigh, Sophie anxiously ministered to the half-frozen Boris, piling furs upon him, holding the vodka to his numbed lips until he protested this care, gruffly insisting that it was not the mistress's place to tend the serf. Sophie's scornful laugh cracked in the dry, icy air. “It is not like you to talk nonsense, Boris Mikhailov. Now, unless you wish to sleep, will you tell me how the count rescued you from the stable?”

When Boris changed places with Adam, Adam made Sophie run beside the sleigh for ten minutes. This time, though, he took her hand and ran with her, needing the exercise to force his own slowed blood to quicken again. Just before nightfall, they came across a ruined farmhouse, behind it a barn with walls and roof intact. Boris drove the sleigh with the riderless horses tethered behind it into the building, and dismounted. “We'll get a fire going in no time. Rub down the horses, feed 'em, and stand them by the fire. They'll be
as good as new by morning.” Muttering, he set about tending the animals, always his primary concern.

Sophie herself took charge of Khan, while Adam gathered kindling and lit a fire in a circle of stones in the middle of the barn. He watched her tending the horse, whispering to him constantly, involved in some private communication with the great beast on which not even the power of a human love could intrude. Holy Mother! He was not jealous of a stallion, was he? His lips twitched at the absurdity of the notion as he began to unpack the carefully provisioned saddlebags.

“Is that food?” Sophie came over to the small but strong blaze, peering hungrily at the neatly wrapped packages Adam was laying upon the ground.

“It is…Sophie, if you touch that vodka again before you have eaten anything, you and I are going to have a falling out.”

“That would never do,” she said peaceably, taking her mittened hand from the bottle. “It is just that this is a rather superior vodka.” Squatting before the fire, she drew off her mittens, stretching her hands to the flickering flames. “Have you not noticed how creamy the really fine vodkas are?”

“Like velvet,” he agreed, the solemnity of his tone belied by his dancing eyes. “In the saddlebag behind you I think there is a saucepan and a skillet.”

Sophie rummaged, found the required utensils, and passed them to him. “Are we going to cook?”

“In a primitive fashion.” Taking the saucepan, he got to his feet. “I'm going to fetch snow for tea.”

That made her laugh. “But you said we do not have a samovar.”

His eyebrows lifted in mock reproof. “Have you never heard of improvisation, Sophia Alexeyevna?”

“It is something at which I have become a master,” she said quietly, looking up at him as she sat on her heels, warming her hands at the fire.

“We both have.” His eyes held hers for a long moment. “And the need for it is not disappeared.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it is less immediate, is it not? We can begin a time free of deception?”

Adam inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, and the truth flowed between them. For the moment they were free, free to give reign to the hungers so long tamped down, free to explore the glorious implications of the current of love that charged them both.

Sophie looked around the barn, where the shapes of horses emerged from the shadows, lit only by the dim glow of a single oil lamp and the flickering flames of the fire. There was one small circle of warmth, beyond it the fierce cold. She smiled, an unconsciously seductive smile. “I think that perhaps we
will
have to improvise.”

Desire leaped, a naked blade, into the gray eyes at that smile, the softly suggestive tone. Slowly, he put down the saucepan, dropping to his heels beside her, gently cupping her face in his hands.

“I am frightened,” Sophie whispered. “Frightened of the power of our love. It is devouring me, melting me down so that I will have no form…no shape of my own.”

“There is nothing to fear, my love,” he replied gently, tracing her mouth with his thumb. “Not when the feeling is shared. We are both in thrall to the power.” He kissed the thin, blue-veined eyelids, feeling the rapid pulsing of her eyes beneath his lips, the flutter of those sable lashes against his cheek. Slowly, his lips annointed the high cheekbones as his thumb traced the fine line of her jaw, and he felt her suspended beneath the caress, her breath paused as if she was savoring every nuance of sensation with her whole body.

Quietly, Boris Mikhailov picked up the saucepan and went outside to fetch snow for the tea.

“I want to hold you,” Adam said. “Hold you for the first time without the restraints of guilt and fear.” He ran his hands over her shoulders, feeling the sharp delineation of her collarbone. She was thinner than the first time he had held her. He thought how then he had jumped back from her as he realized what was happening, realized how close he was to betraying the trust imposed upon him. But Dmitriev had for
feited all rights to that trust…. Had Eva's lover considered that the absent husband had forfeited his rights? The acid skewer of disillusion twisted in his entrails. He saw her at the head of the stairs, her belly, swollen with another man's child, pushing against her skirt….

“What is it?” whispered Sophie, chilled by the strange hardening of the face that a minute before had been dissolved in tenderness. “What are you seeing?”

His eyes focused. “A moment in the past.” That was where it belonged. It must not sour this present, must not prevent his giving and receiving the wonder of love with a woman who looked the world straight between the eyes; one who he would swear had not a dishonest bone in her body.

“A bad moment?” She touched his face, the gesture expressive of both compassion and distress.

“Yes.” He would not lie to her. “But it is gone now.”

“I do not really know anything about you,” Sophie said, on a note of amazement. “Yet, I feel as if I know everything important about you.”

Adam smiled. “My love, you do.” He kissed her quickly, then stood up, deliberately dispelling the tension of uncertainty and of a fearful passion yet to be consummated. “I cannot help feeling that Boris Mikhailov has spent long enough away from the fire.”

Sophie, stricken, looked anxiously into the shadows. “How could we have been so selfish? Boris Mikhailov!” she called into the murky gloom outside the charmed circle.

“Princess?” The muzhik materialized, calm and collected, the saucepan in his hands. “I was just filling the pot.”

Sophie peered suspiciously at him, but could read nothing untoward in the familiar face. “Come and warm yourself.” She shifted sideways, giving him access to the fire. “What are we going to eat?” Seeking distance in domesticity, she began to unwrap the packages Adam had laid out. “I am famished.”

“You have not eaten since yesterday evening,” Adam observed in the same ordinary manner.

“Yesterday?” Sophie sat back on her heels, shaking her
head in a measure of disbelief. “Was it only yesterday at the Stroganovs'? It seems a lifetime away.” Still shaking her head, she began to slice sausage, tossing the slices into the skillet, which she handed wordlessly to Boris. Accepting his task, he held the pan over the fire, turning the sizzling pieces. Adam, in similar fashion, found himself in possession of a knife and a loaf of bread. He cut the loaf, smiling to himself as he watched Sophie, a critical frown drawing those pronounced eyebrows together, setting out what else she considered necessary for this supper, before turning her attention to the complicated process of making tea in a saucepan of melted snow.

After a half hour of almost complete silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of knife against platter, Sophie sighed with contentment. “I have never tasted anything so good. And the tea…elixir from heaven!”

“Better than vodka?” teased Adam, smiling at her over the rim of his cup.

“There's a time and a place for everything,” Sophie declared haughtily, gathering up the dishes and knives. “If you fetch some more snow, Boris Mikhailov, we can wash these.”

“They can wait until the morning.” Adam spoke decisively. “It is too cold to make unnecessary journeys outside.” He stood up. “We are all going to have to make one necessary journey. Boris and I will go first, Sophie. Then I will escort you.”

“I do not need an escort.” Sophie flushed slightly.

“I do not wish to offend your delicate sensibilities, Sophia Alexeyevna, but you will present a very vulnerable target for any prowling beast.”

Sophie shrugged, recognizing that it was the colonel who was speaking, briskly authoritative as he assumed command of this expedition.

“With any luck, we'll find a post house for tomorrow night,” Adam comforted.

Sophie chuckled. “Do you really think such a hospice will provide much luxury? Vermin, certainly.”

“I daresay you are right.” Laughing, Adam primed his
pistol, then he and Boris went out into the night, leaving Sophie contemplating her own trip into the snow with the glum reflection that the male sex had some most unfair advantages in certain matters.

She managed, somehow, with Adam at a discreet distance, pistol in hand, peering into the darkness, watching for the yellow eyes, the bared fangs of a hungry predator. “This is madness.” Sophie came running up to him, rubbing her mittened hands together, her breath freezing in the air. “Will we make it to Berkholzskoye, Adam?” She leaned into him for a minute, unable to pretend that the question had been asked purely in jest.

“You have my word on it,” he said with ineffable reassurance. “If we can purchase a chamberpot and a brazier for the sleigh, it will ease things considerably. Come now, inside quickly before we both become stalagmites.”

In the stable, they discovered that Boris had been busy in their absence. He had prepared a bed of straw and furs amongst the horses for himself, close enough to the fire that he could tend it easily throughout the night. Within the sleigh, furs were piled in thick profusion. “Found an old iron bucket,” he informed them in customary laconic fashion. “Knocked some holes in it, filled it from the fire; makes a passable brazier for the sleigh.”

Sophie peered into the vehicle and was instantly struck by the warmth thrown off into the small space by Boris's contraption. “It's almost cozy,” she said in awe. “Boris, you are a miracle worker.”

The muzhik grunted. “Nothing to it. I'll bid you both good-night, then.”

They returned the valediction, then stood for a second, suddenly, unaccountably awkward. Sophie stared into the fire. She knew what was going to happen; she wanted what was going to happen with an all-consuming desire, had wanted it for so long; so why on earth should she feel as trembly and apprehensive as a virgin on her wedding night? Then it occurred to her that the analogy was not absurd. In matters of
loving, she was still a virgin. Slowly, she raised her eyes. Adam was looking at her with quiet comprehension.

“I am going to love you, sweetheart. There is no need for fear.” Taking her hand, he drew her toward the sleigh. Within its shadowed warmth, he pulled the door shut, closing them into this tiny chamber of fur lit only by minute pinpricks of red glowing through the holes in the makeshift brazier. Sophie, kneeling on the fur bed, waited trustfully, opening her arms to him as he came down on the bed beside her.

“We are going to have to learn each other without eyes,” Adam whispered against her ear, caressing her face with his open palm, rubbing his knuckles against her cheekbone. “It is too cold, even with the brazier, for visible nakedness.”

A shiver quivered through the body beneath his hands at the words. “Do not be afraid.” His hand slipped down to her throat, exploring the soft contours of that slender column.

“I am not,” she replied truthfully. “Unless it be fear that I may not please you.”

His lips took hers in answer, his thumb resting against the pulse at the base of her throat, his other hand palming her scalp in firm support. Gently, playfully, he nibbled on her lower lip, and her mouth curved in a smile of pleasure at the sensual little game. Her tongue darted into the corner of his mouth, and their breath mingled, sweet and warm in this moist, silken conversation of lips. Boldly, she pushed her tongue into the velvet recess, exploring the hollows of his cheeks, the contrasting texture of his teeth. The pulse beneath his thumb quickened. Her body strained against his as for the first time she could give fearless expression to the rushing desires she could not have put into words.

His hands moved down her body, holding her against him as he took over the kiss, his tongue joining with hers in dancing delight. There was a moment when he opened his eyes and met the wondrous glow in the dark ones facing him. Slowly he drew back, placing his hands on her shoulders, leaning away from her as he explored her face, a shadowy oval in the dimness. “Let us get beneath the covers, sweetheart.” His voice was a husky murmur as he drew back the
top layer of furs. “I have to have more of you than your mouth.”

“I also.” She stretched out between the layers, her arms circling him as he lay beside her. For a few minutes they lay alongside each other, savoring the freedom bestowed by the long, uninterrupted hours ahead, falling in with the other's breathing rhythm, allowing the passion to build between them with each breath, until the warmth of their bodies filled the nest.

Adam shifted slightly, leaning up on one elbow without disturbing the tightness of the wrappings. “I am going to undress you,” he said in the whispering darkness. “If I do not let any air under here, you will not be cold.”