The Frost of Springtime (17 page)

Aleksender absently ran his fingertips through her curls and sifted the
fine silk with reverence.

“Taken by the immaculate sight, Psyche forgot about the lamp and
spilled oil onto Eros’s shoulder. He woke in pain. Saw his wife had betrayed
him. The God of Love left Psyche. She was heartbroken. Having learned of her
son’s love for Psyche, Venus took the girl as a slave. Psyche obliged, praying
it’d win back Eros’s trust. But she was sent on a death quest into the
Underworld, where Venus demanded that she fetch a small box. Psyche arrived and
found it with little trouble. But a sly demon beckoned her to open it, saying
it held beauty remedies. Unable to resist such temptation, she opened the box
and descended into a deep and unnatural slumber. Eros vowed to find his love,
looking everywhere—even the Underworld. His divine touch woke Psyche. Eros flew
her into heaven, begging Jupiter to make her immortal so they never again could
be forced apart.”

Aleksender leaned forward just as the last word of Sofia’s words faded.

He split the upside-down seam of her lips with his tongue. Sofia
obliged with a soft sigh, matching each of Aleksender’s thrusts with one of her
own. Large hands grasped onto her face and cradled the curve of her cheeks
inside his palms. Delicious chills shot up and down Sofia’s spine.

He tipped Sofia’s face ever so slightly, drank in her essence, and
deepened their kiss. She moaned inside the dewy heat of his mouth and floated
into oblivion. Aleksender’s hands slid down her cheeks, wound through the mass
of curls and ventured down the elegant column of her neck, slinking over the
cloaked rise of her breasts.

He parted the material, exposing the swell of her cleavage to the
elements.

The feeling of absolute security, true happiness and belonging was
undeniable. Their hearts burned with an overwhelming affection, which felt
remarkably like love.

It was a relief unlike any other, and difficult to ignore. Defeated,
entirely at her mercy, Aleksender shook his head. Inhaling a shaky breath, he
traced crescent circles upon Sofia’s flushed cheeks and lost
himself
in her eyes. He curved his neck till their foreheads gently pressed together.
Wisps of his breaths fanned against Sofia’s skin, caressing her. His words were
barely audible and spoken more to himself: “This is how I can heal.”

Aleksender knew that his fate lay entirely in Sofia’s hands. She held
the power to destroy him forever, should she
so
much
as please. Though, he doubted she was capable of destruction. Sofia’s unabashed
innocence, her unconditional if not blinded faith, did wonders upon the
tattered depths of his soul. Aleksender gathered Sofia’s arms and angled them
behind her reclined form. One by one, he guided her hands below the material of
his dress shirt and wound them about his torso.

The realization sliced through Sofia.

Tears instantly spilled down the slope of her cheeks. “No, no. What did
they do to you?” She trembled, flooded with a violent degree of anger. He’d
been branded by cruelty. She could feel it. His scars—those
scars—
were
deep and gruesome. By comparison, the injuries on his chest were mere
scratches. The epiphany was a knife in Sofia’s heart. He’d been tortured.
Brutally tortured.

“What did they dare do to you?” Sofia demanded once more, choking on
sobs and staring into his eyes. Anger coiled through her body like a palpable
force.

The broad expanse of Aleksender’s back inflated and deflated beneath
her fingertips … inflated … deflated …

For countless moments, only the faint breeze and Sofia’s weeping could
be heard. When Aleksender finally spoke, his voice was cryptically monotonous
and dry as if the very topic bored him to tears. “We’d been in the camp for
weeks. As you said, those who survived at Sedan were taken as prisoners.”

Aleksender crawled from her arms and hugged onto his legs, every inch
of his body convulsing. Sofia saw the memories buried within his eyes.
Gunshots.
Screams.
Rolling cannons and the faded cries of despair.
They lodged
inside Aleksender, battling for his soul.

Sofia rose from the ground and tentatively crouched behind him.
Remaining silent, her hands sunk below the material of his dress shirt and
encouraged him with gentle caresses.

“Disease and death were everywhere.
Men with boils
and rashes the size of saucers.
Anyway, we almost managed to escape. It
was a good mile away that we were spotted. They were corrupt soldiers, nothing
but hungry dogs with a taste for blood-lust. We were tied at the wrists and
ankles, crammed inside a tent. Whether it was days or weeks, I cannot say.”
Scoffing under his breath, he spat, “The fools demanded answers. They demanded
our plans.
Strategies.
We refused each time. Even so
none of us knew anything.”

“Oh, Alek.
Why didn’t you
tell them? To think you could have avoided so much pain.”

His shoulders lifted into a dry shrug. “I suppose we took a morbid
delight in their frustration.” His voice was icy and harsh and void of all
emotion. “And besides—it was the prospect of whipping information from our skin
that kept us alive. But we were eventually returned to the camp.
Bloodied, battered and burned—but alive.”
Aleksender passed
fingertips through his hairline. “Till this day, I have no idea what changed
their minds …” Aleksender sighed and gave an afterthought, “Word had spread of
their rather unorthodox methods, so to speak. According to rumor, they’d paid
dearly.”

“I pray they burn in hell,” Sofia gasped.
“Every last
one of them!”

Aleksender laughed, amused by her goodhearted blasphemy.
“Ah, Sofia, ma chérie.
You do wonders for me.” And then a
sudden thought came to his mind. “Christophe was there with me.”

“In the tents?”
Sofia murmured,
her heart reaching out to both heroes.

Aleksender merely nodded.

Although she’d never had the pleasure of meeting Monsieur Cleef, his name
inspired a strange twinge of nostalgia inside her gut. Aleksender had often
spoken of his dear friend—a rather admirable man of big ideas and too little
restraint. From what she knew of the roguish skirt-chaser, she’d always admired
him very much.

“Such wonderfully brave men,” she crooned, caressing one of many scars.
“You have a soldier’s heart.”

Cloaked beneath the darkness, Sofia’s fingertips moved over his back in
hypnotic motions, not leaving an inch of him unloved. “Do they pain you much?”

“No,” he hoarsely answered, “they are no bother.” His body trembled
within her arms. “Not any longer.”

Between tentative kisses and muffled sniffles, she whispered, “To think
of the pain you endured.
The cruelty—your suffering.”

Aligning their two bodies, Aleksender cradled Sofia’s face between his
palms and sweetly stroked her skin. Sofia’s toes curled against the barrier of
her slippers. It was intoxicating.
By far the sweetest moment
in her nineteen years of life.
With a last kiss, he whispered into her
mouth, “Pain is in the mind. And, in my mind, ma chérie
… I was with you.”

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Sunlight bathed the
ground in dancing shafts. Curving in and out of the various trees, rosebushes,
and trellises, the cobblestone walkway offered a path through paradise.

Arm in arm, Aleksender and Elizabeth strolled through the chateau’s
gardens at a leisurely stride. Apart from his detachment, everything was
bright, brilliant and wonderfully full of cheer. And Elizabeth was no
exception.

Shielding her complexion from the dreaded sunrays, Elizabeth clutched
onto her parasol for dear life. Laughter beamed from her eyes. A silk bonnet
fluttered atop her curls, fondled by a gentle breeze, its fine material
accenting the delicate arch of her brows.

“Oh, dear me …”

Aleksender bellowed an exasperated groan. Somehow, someway, they’d
wandered into the infamous hedge maze. How could he have been so distracted?
Aleksender blamed Elizabeth’s constant chatter. Near to fuming and not in the
mood for infantile games, he glared at Elizabeth and bit back a curse.

Did she dare to smile?

“Elizabeth—”

“Bet you cannot catch me!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Tossing Aleksender a playful backward glance, she chucked the parasol over a
hedge and hiked up her skirts. “Come on now,” she cried over her shoulder,
“whatever are you waiting for?”

Mesmerized, annoyed, and a bit perplexed, Aleksender observed as her
bonnet was swept away. An abundance of golden curls was freed and tossed about
by the wind. Elizabeth ran from him, her slender form appearing smaller and
smaller with each step. Robust laughter filled the air. “Come and get me,
Alek!”

Aleksender paralyzed, questioning his own sanity. He blinked once.
Twice.
No, it was not an illusion. Elizabeth appeared to be
fifteen years-old. Indeed, the mature curves of her body had been replaced with
gangly and undeveloped limbs.

She was fifteen and very immature, he quickly concluded. She’d vanished
from his sight to dart around one of the maze’s clever corners.

Aleksender reached the spot of her disappearance in a few quick
strides. He encountered an endless pathway around the bend. Parallel rows of
hedges went on forever, stretching into eternity.

And yet Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. The phenomenon betrayed the
laws of logic.

Damnation—it betrayed common sense.

“Impossible,” Aleksender muttered under his breath. Such a thing simply
could not be. Had he finally gone mad? The notion certainly held a twisted
appeal. In a way, madness was a sort of luxury.

A delicate hand interrupted his thoughts before he could further
contemplate his questionable state of mind.

Ah, Elizabeth …

He turned to the soft touch.

Aleksender swallowed a generous intake of air. She was dressed scandalously—inconceivably
so—donning no more than a flimsy nightgown and wicked smile. And those curls
were loose and wild, draping over the tempting curves of her breasts like two
sensual waterfalls. She had the decency to blush beneath Aleksender’s hardened
stare.

“Sofia? How—”

She pressed an index finger to his lips. “Hush now.” For the life of
him, Aleksender couldn’t stir a limb.
Couldn’t speak.
The irrationality of the moment became moot. Her simple touch inflamed his mind
and body. From head to toe he was coarse as stone, behaving like a randy lad
ravenous with lust.

“My dear,” Sofia purred, “we really mustn’t have her suspect anything.”

“You should not be here.” His menacing voice vibrated against her nude
fingertip.

“Silly Aleksender,” she chided, wagging her finger in mock scolding.
“Don’t you see? This,” gesturing the towering hedges, “is a maze. Finding a way
out is near to impossible. Just give in.”

The flesh of his mouth grated her finger with each word. “Ah, but you
are wrong, ma chérie. You see, this is built as a labyrinth. It has but a
single path—nothing more. It’s only an illusion. An illusion designed to appear
as a maze.”

“Well. Even so …” Her lips widened into a grin as her eyes brazenly
peered southward. She stepped closer till her bosom skimmed the expanse of his
chest. Her thumb absently traced over Aleksender’s lips. The opposite hand
cupped his groin—fondling his rigid arousal through the trousers.

“N-No. You—” his objection broke off into a pitiful stammer. “You must
not—” Aleksender hissed between clenched teeth as she increased the pressure of
her caress.

“Aw, why so?”
Eyes fallen to
half-mast, he studied the pale arch of her shoulder. Near to bursting, he
fought an excruciating desire to nip at that delectable, ivory flesh. As if
she’d been denied her after dinner sweets, Sofia’s lips drooped into an
adorable and almost childish pout. “Is my touch truly so abhorrent?”

“You know damn well—” Pressing down on Sofia’s wanton hand and
shamelessly grinding against her palm, he moaned. “That I burn for you.” The
words were spoken between sharp thrusts and choked breaths, rasped and
guttural. Sofia’s eyes glittered, taking a perverse delight in Aleksender’s
loss of control.

“Tell me, amour. How many nights have you lain awake and aching,
fantasizing about my lips, my touches? How many nights have you seduced your
body, imagining my caresses? How many whores—how many mistresses—have you taken
in my name? How many times have you made love to your wife thinking of me?”

She began to unclasp the front of his trousers, her voice lowering to a
husky alto. Aleksender gave a hard moan as her fingers brushed over his swollen
flesh. “Tell me—how many nights have you dreamed of this moment?”

A painful ache settled inside Aleksender’s chest. Where was his sweet,
wide-eyed ward? Where was his little Sofia? No. This was neither his dream nor
heart’s desire.

This was nothing more than another shade of his reality.

Panting and gasping for air, Aleksender stumbled backward and speared
all ten fingers through his glossy locks. “Play with fire, you get burned.”
Trapped and entirely alone, he scanned the fortress of hedged walls, vainly
searching for some way out. It was useless. Without knowing the correct
pathway, even a labyrinth could imprison a man.

Just give in …

Sofia’s nimble fingers teased the fastenings of her nightdress,
unbuttoning each one, working at a maddening pace. With a sensuous moan, her
pink tongue swept across her bottom lip, moistening the fleshy seam. She
provocatively pried her nightdress open and bared her breasts to Aleksender,
revealing herself inch by inch. “Then let us burn.”

He woke with a violent start. His hands trembled like that of an
addict’s, temples slick with perspiration. Revolted with himself, Aleksender
spouted a curse—discovering that other regions also felt damp.

He threw back the coverlet. Reality and his dreams had collided once
more. Indeed, shameful proof of his suppressed passion had invaded his marriage
bed. Down below, his nightshirt bore a large slick spot, branding the region
that he’d come to despise most. How humiliating. At thirty-six years, he was
nothing more than a little boy who’d wet the bed.

Deeply shamed and ridden with guilt, Aleksender flipped onto his
stomach with a groan. Beside him, streams of moonlight danced across
Elizabeth’s unconscious and tranquil features. All the time-burdened
imperfections seemed to melt away, leaving the unblemished innocence of a
fifteen-year-old girl in its wake. Staring down, he tucked a loose curl behind
her ear. “You don’t deserve this—any of this.”

Aleksender turned away and buried his face in the mattress, unable to
stomach the sight.

•

Bête Noire’s sleigh bells tinkled in greeting. The room shrank three
full sizes as a shadowy figure crossed the threshold.

The place had undergone very little change since Aleksender’s last
visit. Years had passed, and yet the floorboards were still splintered, windows
veiled, and the chandelier weeping. And Aleksender felt strangely at home.

Business was clearly slower than it had ever been. A handful of whores
were spread out on the two chaises and immersed in mindless chatter.

Aleksender pounded at the golden bell, cringed at its sleazy melody,
and nodded when Madam Bedeau finally appeared.

“It has been a long time, indeed, monsieur.” Flat and painfully tight,
her voice had lost nearly all of its innate sensuality. “Tell me—what is your
desire tonight?”

Aleksender signaled to one of the whores—an appealing, slender brunette.
She was young and bright-eyed, likely in her early twenties. Her bodice was a
deep red, astonishingly low cut, and overflowing with the swell of her breasts.

“A worthy choice, monsieur.”
Madam Bedeau
offered a smile and called out to the girl. “Esther. Kindly show this gentleman
to the rooms.”

“Yes, madam.”
Esther threw her
friends a small grin before departing to the counter. Her fingers curled around
Aleksender’s arm as she led him down the darkened hall. “Come along.
This way, monsieur.”

•

The match came to life with a hiss. Esther lit a pair of candles,
bathing the room with gentle glows. Regardless, the surrounding shadows
remained thick and impenetrable, obscuring everything.

Esther inhaled a sharp breath as her client’s broad form stalked behind
her. He came intimately near. Strong hands wrapped the shaft of her neck in a
feathery and teasing touch.

Indeed. Most of her patrons were either drunks or homely-looking
fellows—more often than not, a little bit of both.

But no—not this man.

This man’s eyes were clear and pristine, every inch of flesh handsomer
than sin. It was strangely unnerving. His finely tailored clothing and
distinguished accent suggested that he was a gentleman—and Bête Noire hardly
received gentlemen. Granted, Esther had been working only a few months—but she
knew the establishment had lost its prestige many years ago. Like the rest of
Paris, it had fallen victim to the shadow of despair.

The features of the man’s face were hidden by an askew hat and
impossible to decipher. And that voice …

His voice was an instrument of pleasure—a low rumble, rich and sultry.
“Take down your hair.”

Esther untied the coiffure, her nimble fingers unusually clumsy. Dark
ringlets fell down her back in vast waves, creating a satin barrier between her
and the mysterious man. She shuddered as elegantly long fingers brushed across
her temple. A cluster of curls were swept aside, exposing her nape to the
elements. The heat of the man’s breath drew close, wafting against her in a
molten sting. The other hand found the ties of her bodice and loosened them one
by one. Within moments, the front of her dress puckered forward, wide and
gaping. Each sleeve slid away from her shoulder, exposing smooth slates of
flesh.

The heat of his body shifted. Esther glanced over her shoulder.
Apparently he’d found a moment to remove the hat.
Hair,
blacker than the night, shone beneath the illumination.
He stood at the
foot of the bed, dark, menacing and purely male.

“Come here.” He waved his hand in a suave and elegant gesture.

Esther obeyed.
“Onto the bed.”
Staring into
his eyes, she eased onto the mattress. The whole affair—everything about this
gentleman—was strangely discomforting.
His slow sensuality,
transient touches, deep gaze and hypnotic, lukewarm voice.

“This really isn’t necessary, monsieur,” Esther said. “I—”

“Shh. Don’t
speak
.” Every muscle tensed as he
settled next to her. A deep crater indented the mattress as it was manipulated
by the pull of his weight. “Don’t look at me.” Esther turned her eyes away. His
lips descended in one, sweet swoop and skirted across her neck—down one side
and up the other. His hands—those strangely gentle, callused hands—discarded
her bodice.

He rolled away in an urgent movement. An unbearable pain lined the
depths of his eyes. A single word was chanted beneath a choked breath.
Sorrelli … no, no—Sofia?
Did he whisper Sorrelli? Or had it
been Sofia? Esther wasn’t sure.

“Monsieur?
Are you all right?
Is … is something amiss?”