Silver Nights (29 page)

“I cannot help feeling that that would be even more detrimental to my condition,” she murmured pensively, regarding him through her eyelashes.

“It may strike you as strange, but I do not find this in the least amusing,” Adam said, a chill in his voice strong enough to strike to the marrow of her bones.

It would be clearly politic to withdraw. “No,” Sophie said humbly, hanging her head. “It was a joke in very poor taste. It was just so exhilarating after being cooped up for so long.”

In silence, Adam swung his horse back the way they had come. Sophie followed, keeping a few paces behind him, wondering how long it would be before the ice melted. His wife was supposed to have died in a riding accident while carrying a child. The remembrance served to dampen her exhilaration, to produce an uncomfortable prickle of remorse for her flippancy.

They returned to the caravan, slowly winding its way across the steppe. Prince Potemkin, glancing at Sophie's subdued expression, then at his colonel's grimness, guessed that Count Danilevski had subjected the errant princess to the well-
known rough edge of his tongue. Thoroughly deserved, thought the prince, deciding to leave well enough alone.

“You would be well advised, Princess, to take up your position with the imperial carriage,” Count Danilevski said in the same Arctic tones.

“Yes, Count,” replied the princess meekly.

She trotted off and Potemkin chuckled. “Were you harsh, Adam?”

“No more than necessary,” the count said shortly. “If her husband witnessed such an indecorous display, he would be justified in insisting she travel in a carriage.”

“Well, it is unlikely that Prince Dmitriev will be overseeing his wife's behavior for a while.” Potemkin peered into the shimmering distance. “He is going ahead to Bakhchisarai to ensure that the Tatars are prepared to welcome their sovereign with all due ceremony and respect.” Potemkin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Her Imperial Majesty insists upon entering the Crimea without the escort of Russian troops. She is convinced that if she trusts in the loyalty of the Tatars, she will receive it. It is but four years since the Khan yielded to Russian governorship. I trust Her Majesty's instincts are as true as always, but just in case I thought an advance force, arriving in peace, of course, might be a wise precaution.”

Adam made the right noises in response to this confidence, but it required some effort to concentrate. His anger with Sophie dropped miraculously from him. In the absence of Dmitriev, the freedom of the steppes would truly be theirs. Sophie would be relieved of the niggling anxiety that he guessed occasionally hovered on the edge of panic; he would be free to contrive the scenarios for their loving in a spirit of play and adventure, liberated from the shadowy tentacles of a vengeful husband.

An hour later, Sophie, riding decorously beside the imperial carriage, engaged in conversation with the English ambassador, Lord Fitzherbert, who had also chosen to ride, became aware of a large troop of cavalry coming up from the rear of the caravan. At their head rode General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. He came over to her.

“I must bid you farewell, Sophia Alexeyevna. We will be reunited in Bakhchisarai.”

Her heart leaped in her breast; she lowered her eyelashes, knowing the spark of excitement would shine from her eyes. “Do you go on a military exercise, Paul?”

“I go to ensure a peaceful reception for the empress,” he said, the pomposity of his tone failing to disguise his pride in such a mission. He gestured to the troop of cavalry. “A show of strength should be sufficient to ensure compliance, but we are prepared should more be necessary.”

“I do commend you, Paul,” Sophie said demurely, conscious of the British ambassador beside her. “It is a mission for which you are supremely fitted.” She turned to Lord Fitzherbert with an affected shudder. “The Tatars are such a violent, unpredictable race, sir, and they have only recently been made subject to Her Imperial Majesty. It would not be extraordinary if there were to be some demonstrations of disaffection.”

“Indeed not,” agreed His Lordship, eyeing the magnificent general and his troop. “You have some experience in the Crimea, I understand, General Dmitriev.”

“A certain amount.” Paul bowed in acknowledgment. “I fought with the field marshal during the annexation and have dealt with several insurrections since.”

“Then our reception is in good hands,” the Englishman said politely. With courteous delicacy, he urged his mount forward, leaving the general and his wife to make their farewells in a degree of privacy.

“Enjoy your riding, my dear,” Paul said softly. “It is not a pleasure you will have for much longer.” He rode away from her without waiting for a response. That clammy miasma settled over her, spoiling what should have been a moment of triumphant joy. She was wondering if she dared ride up to the head of the caravan to engage Count Danilevski in an unexceptionably neutral conversation that might serve to warm the temperature a little and dissipate her unease, when Lord Fitzherbert dropped back beside her. She returned to her duties.

In late afternoon the caravan halted. The passengers descended from their carriages to wander the green, flowery land. The sun had lost some of its earlier power, and the air was fresh with the scent of grass and flowers. Soon wood-smoke rose from braziers, then the heavy aromas of roasting meat. Samovars bubbled, servants ran from group to group, while crews put up the city of tents that would accommodate the enormous party. The tents of the distinguished guests were elaborate structures, richly decorated with silver braid and precious stones that winked in the dusk as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.

Sophie found herself assigned to a tent with two other members of the suite. It was not unexpected, but she could not help wrinkling her nose at the inconvenience. No husband, but two chaperones! However, Count Danilevski had made no attempt to exchange so much as a glance with her since the contretemps that morning, so she was obliged, in some disgruntlement, to assume that pardon had not yet been granted. He presumably knew that Paul had left the procession, so it was to be hoped it would not be withheld overlong.

Dressed for dinner, she made her way to the czarina's tent, easily identified by the crown and two-headed eagle surmounting the jewel-bedecked canvas structure. Catherine's sleeping area was separated from a large reception room by a heavy tapestry. The reception area was furnished as if it were a salon in Czarskoye Selo, the summer palace outside St. Petersburg: chairs, divans, ottomans, rich rugs that covered the ground, filling the air with the scent of crushed flowers. Lamps glowed in elegant silver holders. Lackeys passed trays of champagne and vodka, olives, salt fish, and pickles.

Sophie joined the circle around the empress, her eyes skimming the throng for a sign of Adam even as she smiled, talked, gingerly sipped champagne. She felt him come up behind her. The little hairs on the back of her neck lifted. He brushed against her as he bowed to Catherine, who greeted him affably.

“May I procure you a glass of fruit syrup, Princess Dmi
trievna? I have noticed you prefer it to champagne.” He spoke softly as he turned from the magic circle around Catherine.

“It is kind of you to offer, Count, but I am not really in need of either.” Her eyes questioned with a degree of anxiety.

“I do not know what is to be done with you, Sophia Alexeyevna,” he said in the barest whisper, but the gray eyes sparked amusement and she relaxed with relief. “I understand your husband is gone to Bakhchisarai.” He spoke casually, for all to hear.

“Yes, to ensure that all goes smoothly. It is a task for which he is most suited.”

Talking in this manner, they managed to extricate themselves from the press quite naturally. Sophie fanned herself vigorously. “It is very hot, is it not, Count?”

He gave her a sharp glance as if to satisfy himself that her remark was merely a ploy to get them to the door and not indicative of genuine distress. But her color was normal, her smile steady. “A breath of air,” he suggested, gesturing to the tent opening.

They stood for a moment looking out on the amazing sight of a canvas city imposed upon the wilderness. “Follow the north star,” Adam instructed in a voice that rose and fell in normal cadences as if he were saying nothing out of the ordinary. “There is a grove of trees. You will find me there.”

“When?” Her voice dropped involuntarily.

“Whenever you are able to leave your tent without remark.” His voice did not alter, and Sophie realized that the experienced conspirator recognized that words would not be noticed in the melee, whereas surreptitious attitudes and whispers might draw attention. She had not thought of Adam as an experienced conspirator. Perhaps it was just a skill growing naturally out of a military training.

Her own skills at extricating herself from her tent fellows were not well honed, she found. The empress had chosen carefully. Thinking to provide Princess Dmitrievna with congenial company of her own age, she had assigned gossipy Natalia Saltykova and the more gentle, sweet-tempered
Countess Lomonsova to her tent. In the choice of Natalia, the czarina had an ulterior motive. The gossip missed little and was most conveniently indiscreet; the slightest prompting let loose the prattle like water from a dam. If Sophia Alexeyevna could be induced to confide in her friends, the czarina would hear what she needed to know.

As they prepared for bed, Sophie wondered fancifully whether Natalia would fade into thin air if she ever stopped talking. The ceaseless chatter pouring forth from a rosebud mouth seemed to define the person. She was just words, no substance at all. It seemed impossible that sleep would put an end to the flow, which was serving to put Sophie to sleep very effectively. She could hardly keep her eyes open as the words washed over her in the soft gloom. The exertions of the day took their toll, the fresh night air soothed and relaxed…

She woke with a jerk, wondering what had penetrated her doze. It was the silence, blissful silence disturbed only by the deep, rhythmic breathing of her companions. It was too dark inside the tent to see the time. She slid out of bed, reached for her cloak, slipped from the tent to stand in the moon-bright, star-bright silver night. Her watch said two o'clock. Was Adam still waiting for her? Drawing the cloak tightly around her, she ran on bare feet across the grass, following the north star. The grove of trees stood out in the boundless, dark expanse beneath the brilliant, shimmering sky. The grass prickled beneath her feet as she ran, filled with anxious expectation. Would he still be waiting?

He stood, a darker shadow in the shadows of the trees. Gasping, she ran into his arms, laughing and apologizing in the same breath, lifting her face for his kiss. “I fell asleep. I do not know how I could have done so. Unless it is that Natalia's chatter is as soporific as laudanum.”

“I am glad you slept.” He pushed her hood away from her hair, running his hands through the silken chestnut-brown mane, drawing it over her shoulders, a concentrated smile playing over his mouth. “I would not have you unrested.”

“Have you been waiting forever?” Her eyes held his, soft with promise yet sparkly with excitement.

“An eternity,” he replied. “Let us go farther onto the steppe.” Taking her hand, he led her out of the trees' shadow, into the milky light. “It is as if one is inhabiting another world,” he said softly. “Look over there.”

“A caravan of camels,” Sophie said, watching the stately shapes plodding, necks swaying, outlined against the horizon. “I used to lie in bed on summer nights listening to the shouts of the drivers as they passed by Berkholzskoye.” She smiled up at Adam. “Such romance, I used to think. A magic world embodying all sorts of things that I could only feel as vague yearnings, delicious stirrings that I did not understand and couldn't describe.” She laughed. “Fortunately, for had I attempted to tell Tanya about such mysterious sensations she would have muttered about indigestion and dosed me with sulphur and molasses!”

“And do you feel those mysterious sensations now?” He touched her face with a finger.

“Oh, yes,” Sophie said. “But I understand them now.”

Adam unfastened her cloak, spreading it upon the ground. “What a wanton creature you are,” he murmured. “To come out on the steppe in your nightgown.”

“I did not think there was much point in dressing,” she replied with that crooked, quizzical smile. “Since I did not expect to remain dressed for very long.”

“Shameless one!” He drew her down, leaning over her, hands braced on either side of her body. “I have a fantasy I would like to enact.”

“Oh.” Her eyes sparkled responsively. “Can we both play?”

“Well,” he drawled, trailing a kiss down the bridge of her nose. “Your role is somewhat passive in this particular fantasy.”

“Tell.”

Thoughtfully, he stretched out a hand, picking a violet from the steppe, then a daisy. He threaded them into her hair. “I
am going to plant you with flowers,” he murmured, “everywhere on your body.”

Sophie shivered deliciously. “Everywhere?”

“Everywhere…very slowly.”

Her body quivered, moistened, burned. Her breath came swift through parted lips; her eyes glowed luminous. She was suffused with desire, mastered by passion, lost in the image of erotic promise. The balm of the night air laved her skin as he drew her nightgown up her body, her limbs spread wide upon the cloak as she lay, a sacrifice to the gods of love and lust, bathed in starlight to be grafted with the delicate, fragrant beauty of the steppe.

The stars were fading, a pink tinge hovering in the sky, when the night of love drew to its inevitable close. “Hurry, sweetheart,” Adam said on a note of urgency, drawing her upright. “It is later than it should be.”

Sophie tucked her hair beneath her hood. “No one can tell that I have only my nightgown on. A dawn stroll will not seem too extraordinary in this fairyland, should we be seen.”