Silver Nights (8 page)

Sophie fell asleep finally, the events of the day taking their toll. She had achieved some measure of resignation, as her grandfather had known she would eventually, when she stopped striving against perceived injustice and allowed common sense to reign.

She awoke to bright sunshine. “I thought we were to leave at dawn.” She sat up, blinking, taking the bowl of coffee that Tanya was holding out.

“The count said you needed your sleep,” Tanya informed her with a serene smile. She did not add her own opinion that the count had needed time to clear his head. “Your clothes are ready. And the count says we'll be leaving as soon as you're dressed.”

Sophie put on her clothes, trying to fight the dread of what she knew the day would bring. All thoughts of the previous evening's glory and confusion, and her subsequent conclusions, were subsumed under the sick knowledge of the wretchedness in store for her. With an effort, she straightened her shoulders, put up her chin, and walked outside into the fresh brilliance of early morning.

Adam was not deceived by the erect posture. Her eyes held the haunted fear of a torture victim looking upon the instruments that had broken her once and that she knew were about to do so again. He walked over to her as she reached the carriage.

“If you prefer, you may ride my horse on a leading rein, and I will ride Khan,” he said.

There was a moment's silence as she looked toward the now-saddled Khan, his rein loosely held by Boris Mikhailov. Then to his amazement she shook her head. “Khan has never been ridden by any but me, since the Kalmuk who first taught him to take the saddle. I cannot allow anyone else to ride
him. It is a Cossack rule, if you would have the absolute trust of such an animal.”

“You have only the two alternatives,” he said, softly insistent, unable to bear the idea of her suffering in the carriage again, yet knowing that if she gave him no choice he would have to insist.

She looked up at him, her eyes clear, that crooked smile quivering quizzically. “I think I have a third choice, Count. I will ride Khan, but I will make no attempt to flee your escort.”

Not for the barest instant did it occur to him to doubt her. A great weight rolled from his shoulders. He smiled at her, even as he remembered that without the pretext of the role of jailer he would find it much harder to maintain a distance between them.

“Boris Mikhailov will help you mount,” he said, catching himself as he was about to offer to perform the service himself.

“There is no need.” Moving with that long, energetic stride, she went to Khan, rubbing his nose, resting her face against his, whispering to him for a minute, before grasping the reins handed to her by Boris Mikhailov and springing with muscular agility into the saddle.

“Took your time coming around, didn't you?” said Boris, checking the girth. “You'll not best that one, I'll tell you that for nothing.”

“Your opinion is sage as always, Boris,” Sophie said sweetly. “I had come to that determination myself.” She settled into the saddle, lifting her face to the sun and the wind, inhaling deeply.

Adam looked at her, thinking that, once more in her own element, she had again acquired that air of power and unquestioning self-confidence. He still had her pistol, though, and on the whole he thought he would keep it until they reached St. Petersburg. What Prince Dmitriev would decide to do with a pistol-carrying bride was no concern of his aide-de-camp…. Was it?

General, Prince Paul Dmitriev, hands clasped behind his back, marched the length of the gallery running the width of his fine stone palace on the bank of the River Neva. Long windows opened onto the river that was now dotted with small craft, schooners gay with the identifying flags of their affluent owners, and rowboats, their oars plied by men in multicolored jackets. The water sparkled under the mid-May sunshine, the merry traffic on the river and crowding the many canals linking the various parts of this city carved out of a swamp augmented the prince's sense of satisfaction; indeed, the whole cheerful scene seemed to have been arranged especially for him.

The prize was almost in his grasp. The runner who had just arrived, breathless and exhausted after a day-and-night ride, had said that they would now be just over a day's journey from St. Petersburg. In the morning, the prince would ride out to meet them, to greet his bride with all due courtesy and consideration, and escort her himself to the Winter Palace, where she was to be lodged until after the wedding.

Was she as beautiful as her mother? Paul wondered. It would be almost too much to hope for—beauty
and
such a fortune. The czarina had laughingly warned him that the princess had had an unconventional upbringing and might not be as docile as she should be. But docility could be taught, as the prince well knew. There were tried-and-true methods at which he was expert for achieving the mastery of spirited creatures, as well as the ordained submission of wives. His
previous three wives had all come sweetly to hand after a short period of schooling. However, he would show the Golitskova only smiles and indulgence until she was legally his. The czarina would not force her into the marriage, as Dmitriev knew well. Autocrat though Catherine undoubtedly was, she was also intelligent and enlightened, considered herself humane and caring. If Sophia Alexeyevna exhibited genuine distress at the arrangements made for her, the empress would make others.

That must not happen. A deep frown buckled Prince Dmitriev's forehead. He had been denied the mother; he would not be denied the daughter.

Sophia Ivanova had shown only contempt for the heart and devotion the young Prince Paul had laid at her feet; she had had eyes only for Alexis Golitskov, the two of them as lovesick as a pair of turtle doves. The prince's lip curled at the humiliating memory that still corroded like acid. He had made a fool of himself, and the whole of St. Petersburg had laughed. He had followed her around like a spaniel pup, his adoration there for all to see, and she had spurned him publicly to marry Alexis Golitskov with great trumpeting. And afterward, the married couple had treated him with such condescending kindness. Alexis, the softhearted fool, had offered him friendship, the freedom of his house, the galling sympathy of the victor. Sophia had smiled upon him, had welcomed him to her salon, and had remained as unattainable as the Holy Mother.

His jealous hatred for Alexis Golitskov had become a monster, many-tentacled, growing daily more hideous, in direct proportion with his ever-increasing lusting obsession for Sophia Ivanova. In the hatred he had found the salve for hurt pride, in lust's obsession the cure for love. As he had smiled and played the game of willing loser, charming friend, insouciant companion to both husband and wife, he had waited for the opportunity that was bound to come. Sophia's pregnancy had rocked him to the core, this overt evidence of another's man's enjoyment of her. And they had been so
happy, billing and cooing in nauseating self-congratulation, as if no one had ever conceived a child before.

As he paced the gallery, he could feel again the power of his loathing and jealousy. Every time he had seen her, her fruitful belly concealed beneath the loose Russian gowns that the empress had made popular again, violent images had filled his head, setting his heart to pound, sweat to mist his palms.

Then had arisen that whole ridiculous business of Prisoner Number One. In 1741, Peter the Great's daughter Elizabeth had taken advantage of Russia's disaffection with the Germanic influence embodied by Anne of Brunswick, who ruled the country as regent for her infant son, Ivan VI. Elizabeth had carried out a coup d'etat and made herself empress. The mother and child were imprisoned, and the little deposed czar had been known as Prisoner Number One ever since. The young man had grown up an idiot, never allowed to see the light of day, receiving no education, yet his continued existence posed a vague threat to the succession of subsequent imperial rulers whose legitimate right to rule could be challenged by one who had been unlawfully deposed. Elizabeth had been troubled by him; her successor, Peter III, during his brief reign, had been uneasy about him; and the czarina Catherine, having deposed her husband, Peter III, and turned a blind eye to his assassination, had been alert to the possible danger of Prisoner Number One.

His timely demise could only have been a relief, but for one whose husband had recently died a violent death also to her benefit, it was a grave embarrassment, viewed with shock by the courts and governments whose good opinions were a matter of policy and pride—those of Austria, Prussia, France, and England. Catherine had acted promptly and harshly to defeat the rumors that the rebellion leading to his death was incited by herself; visiting exemplary punishment upon any persons implicated in the plan—and incautious words had been spoken in the Golitskov salon.

They had not amounted to much—a statement that Ivan VI had received less than justice in his short life, the reminder that he had once been designated czar and his overthrow had
been conducted in a haste and secrecy that bespoke conspiracy. But in the anxious climate of the time those words could be magnified, presented as the beginnings of the plot to deliver the “rightful” czar from imprisonment. The czarina had ordered the arrest of the Golitskovs. They had taken flight in panic, and their good friend, Prince Dmitriev, had taken charge of the pursuit. Under imperial orders, of course, and with the utmost reluctance, but a man must obey his sovereign.

He had intended to be the soul of understanding and compassion when he escorted them back to St. Petersburg and imprisonment in the great fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul—the ominous gray building that he could see now on the opposite bank across the busy, sparkling river. He had intended to promise to intercede with the empress so that Sophia Ivanova could be released to give birth in freedom. And he had intended to ensure that Alexis Golitskov did not leave the fortress alive. The widow, weak from childbirth, sorrow, and fear for her own safety, would be an easy conquest when one she trusted offered his strength and support.

It had been a neat and pleasing plan. But when he had reached that filthy hovel, rank with the stench of blood and death, he had found the plan in ruins.

Nearly twenty-two years later, he was now looking upon a neat tidying of loose ends. He would have under his control the vast Golitskov fortune that had made Alexis so confident, so sure of his place at the top of the court dunghill. And he would have in his bed the daughter of Sophia Ivanova.

It was quite perfect, Prince Dmitriev reflected. He would enjoy his own private satisfaction at this curious revenge, while providing himself with the heirs that none of his other wives had managed to bear. They had gone childless to their graves, but surely this fresh young virgin could not also be barren?

He rubbed his hands together with anticipatory pleasure. Tomorrow he would meet Sophia Alexeyevna Golitskova, and she would meet a graying, distinguished general, anxious to please his young bride-to-be, bearing gifts suitable for a shy,
unsophisticated virgin from the uncivilized steppes, and ready to offer her the calm advice, the mature strength, the experienced wisdom that would steer her through the intricacies of her first weeks at court. Thus would he ensure her dependency and allay any fears.

 

Adam glanced sideways at his companion. It was a surreptitious glance, of a kind he had become adept at taking over the last weeks. Just looking at her gave him inordinate pleasure, yet he could not allow her to divine this, any more than he could allow himself to dwell upon the fact. He had fought against acknowledging it for a long time, but eventually he could not help but admit to himself that never had he enjoyed another's company as much as he enjoyed that of this bright, bold woman, whose mind was as alert as her body. She held herself as if poised for the discovery and enjoyment of some new experience, even as she took such clear pleasure in the simple, customary things such as a ride in the sunshine, the flight of a hawk, the joyous magnificence of a nightjar, crusty black bread and mead when one was hungry and thirsty, the benediction of sleep after a day of physical exertion in the open air. She was untroubled by discomfort. Indeed, the previous night she had slept wrapped in her cloak upon a table to escape the vermin in the miserable hovel that was all they could find as shelter. And she had laughed at his own apologetic annoyance, dazzling him with those dark eyes, sparkling with fun, and the quizzical, crooked smile that so entranced him, while she ate rancid cheese and stale bread as eagerly as if they were delicacies from the imperial kitchens.

Sophie felt his eyes upon her, as she always did, although, obeying instinct, she was careful not to meet his gaze. She did not know why he looked at her so secretively, she only knew that it gave her a little thrill of pleasure. There would be no repetition of that kiss. She had come to accept that, just as she had come to accept the inescapability of her present journey. They both behaved as if that glimpse of heaven had never happened, because, of course, such a thing could
not have taken place between a young woman on her way to her husband-to-be and the man charged with the trust and responsibility of escorting her. But the ease she felt in his company could be enjoyed with a clear conscience, surely; with the deep pleasure that came from the friendship and companionship of a like-minded soul. Yet the one subject they both avoided was General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. Which was strange, Sophie reflected. Why did she not want to ask Adam about his general, the man who was to play such a large part in her own life? And why did he never volunteer any information or description?

The road they were taking wound across the Novgorod plain, stretching flat and immense on either side, the occasional gleam of sun on water indicating a river or lake, with which the plain was dotted. Khan raised his head and sniffed the wind.

“Adam?”

“Mmmm?” He smiled at her, the laugh lines crinkling around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

“May we gallop?”

“So you can have the satisfaction of leaving me swallowing your dust, I suppose.”

“But of course,” she agreed sweetly. “What other reason could I have?”

“A nature that can't sit still for a minute,” he retorted. “You are not at all a restful traveling companion, Sophie.”

She laughed. Taking the statement as permission for the gallop, she clicked her tongue against her teeth at Khan, who immediately gathered his great front legs and sprang forward. She turned him off the road and onto the grassy sweep of the plain. Adam made no attempt to follow; it would be pointless. She would come back when she had shaken the fidgets from her spirit.

He peered up the winding dusty strip of white road ahead. A cloud of dust rose in the distance, drifting toward him, indicating fellow travelers presumably coming from St. Petersburg. They were no more than half a day's ride from the
capital, even at the relatively slow pace set by the carriage in which Tanya Feodorovna traveled in solitary state.

The dust cloud drew nearer, and Adam stiffened suddenly at a premonitory flash. It would be both natural and appropriate for Dmitriev, as befitted an eager groom, to come to meet them. His runner had reached them the day before yesterday, and had stayed for no more than a change of horse before taking the news of their position back to St. Petersburg.

The Dmitriev livery on the front riders at last became clear, and Adam could make out the tall, erect figure of his general, commanding in his uniform, the silver of buttons and sword hilt glimmering in the sunlight. He was come to meet his bride. But where the hell was she?

Adam scanned the flat plain for a sign, but she had disappeared long since behind a screen of brush, leaving her escort in the awkward position of having to explain to his commanding officer, who also happened to be her anxious bridegroom-to-be, the unescorted absence in uncharted territory of a princess of the house of Golitskov.

Adam had given Sophie back her pistol several weeks ago, so
he
was not concerned for her safety, but how could he possibly explain such a situation to Dmitriev? The prince would have to see Sophia Alexeyevna and judge for himself. It was time for Adam Danilevski to bow out. His lips twisted in a cynical smile at the reflection that the prospect of bowing out of Sophie's life somehow did not bring the sigh of relief he should have expected. This irksome escort's task that he had assumed with such annoyed reluctance had taken on a different complexion. And gnawing constantly at the pleasure he took in her company was the knowledge that what he found delightful about Sophia Alexeyevna her designated husband would find objectionable.

When the two parties met up, the general saluted his aide-de-camp with impeccable formality, the martinet's eye sharply inspecting the deportment and uniforms of the guardsmen, who had all come to attention in the saddle. The dullness of
buttons, the wrinkles in jackets, the grubby linen were all noted.

“It is a long and uncomfortable journey from Kiev, General,” Adam said quietly. “Water, polish, and shoe blacking are not easy to come by in some of the places where we have been obliged to spend our nights.”

The general simply nodded. His eyes went to the carriage, which had come to a halt in the rear. “Princess Sophia has not endured too much discomfort, I trust?”

Adam swallowed. “She is remarkably resilient, General.”