T
HE WHITE BIRD SQUIRMED
in Damien’s hand, its plaintive coos echoing in the wagon.
“Hold still, that’s a good fellow, just a moment more,” he muttered under his breath, finally securing the tiny metal cylinder to the pigeon. It puffed in indignation, flapping its strong wings in another attempt to dart free.
He had only moments before April might return from the shop with the violin, and already his excuse that he had forgotten something in the wagon seemed too flimsy to be believed.
Cradling the bird under his arm, Damien walked to the rear of the wagon and drew back the canvas flap. With a flutter, the white bird burst from his hold, winging up to freedom.
“Fly swift and true,” Damien murmured, watching it until it vanished into snow-laden clouds high above the city.
“Damien!” He heard April exclaim as she hurried toward the wagon, concern in her voice. “One of the birds just escaped.”
“I know.” He adopted a wry tone as he leaned out to look at her. “I opened the cage to feed it, and it just flew out.”
“Poor thing. It will freeze up there.” She held his violin case in one hand, a paper-wrapped package in another. “I used the money Pavel gave us to buy you a new outfit. I hope it will fit.”
“I have no doubts if you chose it,” Damien said, jumping down from the wagon to help her with her burdens.
“Did you remember what you’d forgotten?” she asked.
“Yes. I forgot to say ‘I love you’ this morning.” Damien pecked a kiss on the end of her bright pink, icy nose, and April laughed delightedly. She completely forgot all about the pigeons then, just as he intended.
“S
HE IS HERE?”
I
VANOV
faced the mirror as he spoke, fiddling with the stiff collar of his frilled shirt, and Pavel detected the note of anxiety in the count’s voice.
“Yes. Both she and the musician are dressing for the performance downstairs. I bought the girl a gown I knew would favor her. She should be ready within the hour.”
Ivanov lightly touched his graying, dark hair, patting it fastidiously into place though not a strand dared toy with his temper tonight. He trembled with anticipation, imagining and wondering if it could be possible, if a woman existed to compete with his Katya’s perfection. His critical eye roamed over his appearance one last time, noting the excruciatingly correct lines of his black frock-coat and trousers, the finely embroidered waistcoat and highly polished shoes.
Though he knew by court standards he was still a handsome man, Ivanov resented the loss of his youth. At two score, he was eclipsed now by equally eligible, younger men. It gave his mouth a bitter twist, and his renowned acerbic wit had become harsh and cruel of late.
As he left his bedchamber, Pavel trotting alongside like a faithful dog, Ivanov shook his head and said again, “Gypsies. I don’t know, Pavel. Aren’t they dangerous? Aren’t the women renowned for witchcraft?”
“The only witchcraft this one has is with her eyes,” Pavel gushed. “Such a shade of green as you’ve never seen — well, perhaps you have.”
Ivanov idly recalled the collar of emeralds he had given Katya to match her flaming eyes. Considered priceless, the stones had been in his family for several centuries. She had worn them for a time, toying with his affections, then abruptly refused to wear them.
Since then, the necklace had been gathering dust in the gold chamber that he had once fashioned for her, in the same spot she had carelessly flung them in a fit of pique. He had forbidden any of his servants to touch anything in the room he prepared for his intended bride twenty years ago.
Years ago, he had been teased by the
boyar
at court about his fascination with Ekaterina. Since her untimely death, Ivanov had shunned the court entirely, gaining the reputation of an eccentric and a recluse. He was tormented by the loss of Katya. She still existed in his tortured heart and mind, welcoming him in his dreams as she had never done in real life.
Even now, none dared mention Katya to him. Her portrait hanging in the library was regarded with no little fear. He had once beaten a maid who had merely attempted to dust the frame.
Now he found himself desperate enough to let a compulsive liar persuade him that a gypsy, some blowsy backwoods wench, could possibly make him forget his Katya. He doubted it, but he did suppose he would be entertained, if rumors about gypsy dancing and musical abilities proved true.
Pavel took a departure to check on the ballroom and the state of the performers. Ivanov decided to avail himself of a smoke, and stepped outside on the stone path directly through the library doors.
It was bitterly cold outside, but the icy air refreshed him. He cupped his hands to light a cigarette, then blew a great white ring of smoke that spiraled up toward the dusky purple sky.
He stood awhile, steeling himself for the night’s events. As he finished his smoke, he overheard an explosive string of cries coming from a nearby room.
The voice was female, but he couldn’t make out the words. Curious, Ivanov followed the gently curving path to the double glass doors that looked into that chamber. What he saw made him freeze and stare in heart-pounding disbelief. There, standing centered in a pile of snow-white petticoats, was his Ekaterina.
She was loudly berating someone, a maid perhaps, about something. She wore only a thin, moonlight-colored silk chemise and her golden hair swirled to her waist, freshly shining from a bath. When she half-turned toward him, Ivanov saw the angry green flash of her eyes.
Dear God. He sagged against a marble statue in the garden, the cigarette snuffed in the snow. In an instant he was transported back twenty years, to when he had similarly spied on his beloved at her toilette.
Suddenly he had to know what she was saying. Was her voice shrill, unpleasant? Or a low seductive drawl? He hurried back along the path, almost slipping on his smooth soles. He entered the library breathless and with a complete loss of composure. Above the fireplace, Katya’s portrait mocked him with knowing green eyes.
Witch! So she had come back to haunt and taunt him, eh? This time she would not succeed. One way or the other, whatever it took, Ivanov would make Katya his.
A
PRIL HAD NO IDEA
she had nearly driven a man to the point of madness. She only knew she was consumed with rage herself, and her hands shook as she hurled the spangled red dress in a sorry heap across the room.
“I will not wear it. Tell Pavel to bring another. No Romany wears red. It is the color of death.”
The maid stared furiously back, outraged that a mere gypsy should scorn the hospitality of her master. She stalked out the door, slamming it emphatically on the stormy scene behind her. Zofia would never understand the count’s desire to bring gypsies — trash! — into his home. Granted, the girl was beautiful, but such a temper. Almost as quick to blow up as Ivanov himself.
As she scurried down the hall, Ivanov stepped out of the shadows and halted the maid. “What is going on?” he demanded softly, gesturing at the room she had just left.
Zofia was glad to complain. “What a one. Screeching at me about the dress Pavel brought for her.”
“What was wrong with the dress?”
The thin, homely Zofia shrugged and threw up her gnarled hands. “Something about the color. It’s death, she says. All that blather about nothing. And such a pretty gown it was, too.”
Ivanov thought fast. Distracted, he said, “Carry on, Zofia. Go tell Pavel she will be ready soon. I will see to it myself.”
Bobbing a curtsey, the maid hurried off. Moments later Ivanov hurried up the central staircase and opened another door on a host of memories, as he breached the dusty peace of the golden bridal suite for the first time in two decades.
Inside the row of closets, creased and pressed and carefully wrapped in protective tissue, was the entire untouched trousseau he had commissioned a Paris dressmaker to craft for Ekaterina. Blues, greens, and golds dominated the color scheme, those shades she wore so well. As if making an important decision, he went through the wardrobe carefully, setting aside any red hues.
There. Suitable for dancing, a flared knee-length skirt of green silk trimmed with gold fringes was attached to a golden-shot silk bodice over a lace chemisette. Though outdated in style, the material was as bright as if it had just been made. Taking it reverently from the closet, Ivanov carried the outfit back downstairs and, after hesitating, knocked softly on the guest chamber door.
“Damien?” A sweet, clear voice inquired, and as she hurried to answer, “You won’t believe what that rat Pavel has done now.”
As she flung open the door, April gasped in shock and embarrassment, trying to cover herself too late from the intense stare of a pleasant-looking older man. In his arms was a mound of glistening material, and before she could speak, he said gravely, “I would be honored if you would wear this instead.”
His Russian was fluent and very cultured. April felt like a clumsy country maid, but tried to overcome her shock by taking the dress he proffered and hugging it to her body.
For a moment, neither spoke. She wondered who this man was, why he was dressed so finely and most especially why he was staring at her so disconcertingly.
“You favor green, don’t you?” he finally said to shatter the tense silence.
She nodded, her eyes wide as she looked over the beautiful dress he had given her. “It’s my favorite color.”
Ivanov smiled even as his heart pounded furiously in his chest. Her voice was musical, but more importantly, the girl was a mirror-image of his Katya in her youth, even more stunning than his fiancée had been in the height of her beauty. There was a palpable quality to this girl that was similar, yet different. For certain she had the same formidable temper, but there was a softness in her eyes that had not been there in the frigid green pools Ekaterina had possessed.
“I have been terribly remiss,” he said then, giving her a short bow. “I am Count Vasili Ivanov. I am delighted to welcome you to my ancestral home, Samarin.”
April tilted her head curiously. She had never met a count before, of the nobility that she could recall. Yet this man put her instantly at ease, though she was but half-dressed. She did not fear him, and did not hesitate to return a greeting in kind.
“My name is April. I am Romany.” There was no shame in her voice, just simple pride.
“You are the entertainer for this evening?” Ivanov already knew as much but he wished to linger, drinking in her unsullied aura. Something about her innocence relieved a great ache in his breast.
“Yes, along with my husband, Damien, who makes the music for me.”
At the mention of a husband, Vasili’s spirits plummeted. Pavel had said nothing about a husband. Perhaps the dwarf did not know? Unlikely, knowing that shifty little fellow. He offered an indifferent nod for April’s sake.
“I will leave you now to prepare. Do you require Zofia again?”
“No, thank you.” He watched a small smile dance around the edges of her sweetly-shaped mouth. “I am not used to servants hovering about me like moths around a fire. You will have to excuse my country ways.”
“Country, perhaps, but charming nonetheless,” he countered smoothly. “I shall see you later at the performance. Welcome to Samarin, my lady.”
The way he emphasized the last two words struck April as strange somehow, but before she had time to muse on it, he had gone. Slowly pushing the door shut again, she shook her mind free of fancies and went to prepare for her dance.
“Y
OU MUST BE
D
AMIEN,
the musician.”
The suave voice that suddenly spoke behind him caused Damien to tense and turn quickly around. He met the cool bland gaze of a middle-aged man, no doubt their mysterious host, finely dressed and fully mannered even for a gypsy’s benefit.
Damien returned the aristocrat’s intense appraisal with his own. He saw the count flush under the stare of a supposedly lesser man.
“Yes,” Damien grudgingly acknowledged at last, returning his attentions to tuning his violin. “And who are you?”
“I am Count Ivanov, owner of Samarin House. I am your host, a grateful one indeed that you and your lady consented to entertain me on this dismal winter night.”
Something in the count’s smooth response bothered Damien, though he couldn’t put his finger on it just yet. The man acted too cordial, especially after Damien’s blatant disrespect. Why should one of Moscow’s elite choose to sponsor a pair of gypsies, whether he was desperate or not? Surely such a fellow could have his share of doting females, and keep well enough entertained during the long winter in the privacy of his own bedchamber.
Though the count seemed obviously ill at ease, he still pressed Damien for information. “I am told the dancer will be joining you soon. Your wife, I believe?”
Ivanov saw the gypsy’s flint-blue eyes narrow on him at the observation, and he tensed. Did this fellow possibly sense his keen interest in April? He was certain he had kept his tone polite and noncommittal. Yet the scrutiny with which Damien examined him made the count feel as if he had just blurted his passions aloud.
“Yes. My wife.” The words held obvious possession, thin as a knife and twice as sharp. To his chagrin, Ivanov found he was the first to break gazes with Damien and call out with relief as another joined them, “Pavel. You have done very well.”
Ivanov’s gesture included Damien’s new outfit, a rich ensemble that did not disguise the Romany’s powerfully muscled, tall frame. The slacks were fine black linen, the white silk shirt topped with a dark blue velvet vest trimmed with gold braid and sequins.
There was thinly-veiled disapproval in Ivanov’s tone, the fact that he had also noted the cost to his coffers in buying this stranger new clothes. Pavel came hurrying over, ignoring the count’s look of censure with a falsetto gushing that made Damien raise one eyebrow.