Authors: Susan Johnson
Although the high Renaissance had already come and gone when the main structure had been built, none of the lighter attributes characteristic of Renaissance architecture had filtered up north. The villa itself retained an overwhelming medieval character; stone turrets crowned with peaked tile roofs punctuated the walls, bottle mullioned windows caught and reflected the northern sun, enormous stonework on the ground floor supported the heavy timber walls of the second story. In a lavish display of his wealth, the Swedish aristocrat had the walls pierced wherever possible with windows, lighting the interior with dazzling color through the multicolored panes.
Tonight Prince Nikolai Mikhailovich Kuzan had been entertaining a small party of fellow officers from his Guards Regiment. After participating in the April sixth fête-day of the Chevaliers Gardes with its day-long riding exhibition
and religious celebrations, they had felt the need for a holiday and Nikki had invited them to his lodge for a fortnight of hunting. However, in the eight days elapsed, the quarry had been confined exclusively to the two-legged female variety, since Nikolai had thoughtfully imported a bevy of Gypsy wenches to provide diversion.
Now, as morning approached, men and women lay entwined in each other’s arms about the room, some on pillows scattered on the Tabriz carpet, others on the colorful divans. One couple, in what to a less dissipated audience would be a tasteless lack of decorum, was busy on top of the dining table; all were in diverse states of drunken abandon and dishabille.
Tanya, a beautiful young Gypsy girl, was swaying in a provocative, sensual dance before Nikki’s sprawled form. One of his hands lightly held a small flask of brandy on his powerful chest. The other hand, lying carelessly on the chair arm, would occasionally move listlessly to the nearby table and turn over another card in the game of solitaire he was indifferently and infrequently pursuing while regarding Tanya, who skillfully undulated to the wild, frenzied tempo. Through narrowed tawny eyes, Nikki watched her tantalize him. Her graceful young body, half revealed in a scanty blouse and silken skirt, twirled close, then retreated, displaying a wanton invitation from brilliant dark eyes. The firelight caught the coruscation of golden highlights from the heavy hoops in her ears and from the multitude of sparkling necklaces twined round her slender neck and swaying against her trembling half-naked breasts.
Behind the curtain leading to the kitchen corridor, the youngest footman whispered to an old retainer familiar with the idiosyncrasies of his new employer. “Is the Prince always so surly and moody?”
Igor admitted that the Prince was not in the best of spirits. “The Kuzans have a devilish temperament, sometimes
little better than savages,” the old servant explained without malice, having happily served the household for decades. “They like fast horses, bad women, and good wine. Between father and son, they have developed one of the finest studs in the Empire, crossing English mares with bloodstock from the Orlov-Rostopchin and the Provalsky stud. They also breed Stryelet stock, which are even more rare. Their horses are world-renowned. The young Prince doesn’t do so badly in the breeding department either.” The old man chuckled. “Like father, like son, they say,” he added softly, remembering the reckless pace the old Prince Mikhail had set in his youth before marriage to a young Gypsy girl had tamed his ways.
“More brandy!” The roar from the hall beyond echoed as Prince Kuzan impatiently banged on the table. The old man lifted his eyebrows and shrugged in cheerful resignation. Both servants hurried to obey the command.
Tanya’s hips still moved to the hypnotic tempo. Her dance was intended to arouse, to primitively and seductively provoke the animal mating instinct.
It did and he was.
With a casual wave of his lace-covered hand, Nikolai abruptly dismissed the musicians and picked up his fresh bottle of brandy. Then he lunged to his feet and, as the music slowed to a stop, lifted her and disappeared into a curtained alcove.
The musicians discreetly stepped over the drunken bodies, avoiding, when possible, the broken glassware and china littering the floor. As they edged cautiously through the elaborately carved double doors, never certain of their safe departure from the eccentric young Prince and his raucous group of intimates until well out of sight and sound, their exit was hastened by a wine bottle thrown violently against the doorjamb, crashing into a thousand fragments and narrowly missing the last violinist. Some drunken music-lover,
no doubt, annoyed at the termination of the pleasant background accompaniment to his lovemaking.
Scurrying through the narrow, dimly lit hallway and foyer out into the relative security and peace of the deep porch of the hunting lodge, the musicians exhaled a collective sigh of relief.
“Heaven help the servants in the morning who have to attend young Prince Kuzan. There’s going to be hell to pay for his pounding head and thick tongue. Praise God, we won’t see him again until evening, when the worst of his headache is gone.” The leader of the musicians sighed.
“Maybe the pain of a throbbing head might make him more docile or at least more silent. I’ve never seen Nikolai so sullen as tonight. He must be tiring of his newest Gypsy bed warmer,” the second violinist said wearily.
“Well, thank sweet Jesus, we’ll be out of his range at least until tonight. Maybe Tanya will be able to soothe the dark mood he’s in. Let’s go to sleep, although the night is practically over,” the youngest member of the troupe suggested.
In the alcove, Nikki casually dumped the girl onto the couch, thus freeing his hand to tip the brandy bottle to his mouth. The liquor flowed warmly down his throat. Thank God for brandy, he thought. It made life more bearable as it blurred the morbid edges of reality.
Sinking down heavily next to the recumbent girl, Nikki set the brandy bottle carefully on the floor and began to pull off his hunting boots. Tanya softly crept up into one corner of the large pillow-strewn couch and leaned back against the tapestry-hung wall, watching him with her dark eyes.
“I’m not in the mood,” she said, pouting.
Nikki barely glanced at the sultry woman nestled against the wall, and continued without a pause to divest himself of his garments.
“You’d better get in the mood,” he growled.
A thrill coursed through the black-haired beauty and passion blazed into her dark eyes. Tanya, although only seventeen, had long ago learned to accommodate men’s varying tastes in bed, but she preferred violence with passion; hostility intoxicated her.
“I won’t. I’m tired,” her petulant tone persisted as she swung her long, shapely legs over the edge of the bed and began to rise.
The Prince’s bare, powerfully muscled arm shot out and grabbed a handful of her satiny black curls, yanking her back onto the bed, pulling her down until she looked up into his golden eyes snapping with irritation.
“Bitch!” he whispered, well aware of Tanya’s sexual preferences by now. But, having watched her enticing dances all evening, he wasn’t in a temper to be toyed with.
“You’re always playing games, aren’t you? However, tonight, my sweet little whore, you find me in a suitably black humor to accommodate your preferences. If it’s violence you want, I can be obliging.”
Tanya’s hand lashed out, long nails poised to rake Nikki’s face. He caught her hand in midair, his reflexes still relatively sure despite the large amount of alcohol consumed. He crushed her wrist in a savage grip and she winced in pain—or was it pleasure? He couldn’t tell.
As he held her, Tanya’s little pink tongue appeared and ran provocatively over her full red lower lip, her dark eyes began to moisten, her breathing became ragged.
“Ah, my dear, you
do like
pain. I should introduce you to Prince Gorcheviv. He has a penchant for whips.”
The Gypsy girl’s half-closed lids lifted and she moaned sensuously.
“Damn!” He surveyed her through half-narrowed eyes. “How can I force a woman as aroused as you?”
Roughly he pushed her down into the pillows, spreading
her legs with his knees, pulling her nipples up and away from her necklaces into hard points of desire. Her body writhed beneath his coercion and her teeth bit into her full lower lip to keep from crying out in joy. She held her arms out wide, reaching for something to cling to as he pushed her skirt above her waist. Then, forcing her wider, he fiercely drove into her melting body, each violent thrust releasing a part of his frustration, each powerful surge a mindless hope for temporary oblivion. She began whimpering as he moved faster into her, his unbridled penetration and withdrawal savage, brutal. He didn’t notice his back was running with blood where Tanya had run her sharp nails over the hard muscles that now moved rhythmically above her.
Much later, Nikolai abruptly woke from his sleep. The slightest sound was enough to instantly arouse him after many campaigns on the eastern frontiers, where the merest noise could be warning of danger from a stealthy Kirgiz intent on dealing a slashing
hallal
. Without moving, he slowly opened his eyes and through heavy black lashes swept a glance about the alcove. Tanya was searching through his clothes, which lay discarded on the floor. Looking for roubles, no doubt, he thought, dropping back to sleep. Prince Kuzan was extremely charitable to his light o’loves, showering them with gifts, jewelry, furs, as well as money, with a careless generosity. Greedy little bitch, he later reflected sleepily but not unkindly, for, after all, Tanya had to think of her future; her youthful charms would quickly fade.
By midafternoon Nikolai’s fractious, irascible temper and pounding head were somewhat subdued; his two cohorts in
arms, Major Cernov and Captain Illyich, and his young cousin Aleksei relaxed in the solace of a small clearing in the birchwoods. There they lay warmed by the April sun, calmed by the peacefulness of their surroundings, free from the chattering, volatile young Gypsy girls who had been discourteously dispatched and told to remain out of sight until called for.
Nikki lay sprawled at ease on the soft green grass, casually attired in superbly fitted cavalry boots, buckskins, and an embroidered moujik shirt open at the throat. His hands were clasped behind his neck as he squinted slightly into the bright sun of a gentle spring day—a poetic, storybook day redolent of bursting buds, fresh turned earth, and fertility.
Nikolai Mikhailovich Kuzan was a giant of a man. His mother’s long-ago heritage from the Caucasus highlands was proclaimed in his swarthy complexion, heavy dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and aquiline profile. From his father’s White Russian roots he had inherited not only his tremendous physique but also his enchanting tawny, liquid eyes, the pupils so large and dark as to appear black; magnificent, beautiful eyes brooding beneath heavy brows. The same kind of eyes that gazed out from opulent, exotically gorgeous Byzantine icons for eight hundred years; arrestingly splendid eyes that could be piercingly alert, indolently shuttered, or benignly calm. His harsh-featured face was softened by those redeeming eyes and by a sensitive mouth, now pursed in discontent.
Nikki tensed, stretched his lean frame like a great cat, then relaxed once again; the quiet sounds of the forest washed over him—new young birch leaves rustling in the breeze, a soft whisper from the bubbling stream lapping at the shore near the boundary of the clearing, the unceasing chatter of the birds overhead. The tranquillity of the woodland eased his tired body but failed to more than superficially
alleviate the restless dissatisfaction of his spirit. Nikki was bored. Boredom—that constant and irksome companion that trailed him with a dogged persistence. Nikki had been leading the arduous and difficult life of leisure now for many years. Chronic leisure with its deadly, restless tedium was inexorably closing in on him.
He propped himself up on one elbow and from under slack lids surveyed his companions lounging carelessly around the remains of the repast the servants had brought out from the lodge. The ice had almost melted in the silver wine cooler and the half-empty bottles were sweating in the heat of the spring sun. The remains of the sumptuous
déjeuner sur l’herbe
lay scattered across the damask cloth and two wolfhounds were diligently eating them. Cernov and Illyich were carelessly tossing dice on a silver tray on the grass between them, while Aleksei was engrossed in a novel by Turgenev.
Nikki listened with his usual tolerant aloofness to the friendly bickering going on during the dicing.
“Tonight I want Cecelia; you had her the last two nights and I think it’s my turn,” Cernov said in a faintly bearish tone.
“Can I help it if she prefers me?” Illyich smiled complacently.
“I don’t care. It’s my turn tonight,” Cernov insisted.
“What can possibly be the difference?” Nikki inquired in a low, husky drawl. “The wenches are all agreeable in every way if one does not mind being bored in short order.”
“Oh, no. I fancy Cecelia’s long legs and slender grace to those more voluptuous charms of Olga,” Cernov responded ardently, recalling Cecelia’s dancing performance the previous night.
“Come now, Gregor,” Prince Kuzan remarked with the disenchantment of his thirty-three years, “one woman is as
good as another.” Then he lay back in the warm sun and shut his eyes.
“Speak for yourself, Nikki. I find Cecelia much more attractive, and I intend to have my turn,” Cernov stated with a slightly aggressive emphasis.
Nikki’s golden eyes fixed a look of mild contempt on the good-natured but now thoroughly heated Cernov.
“As you wish, of course, Gregor,” Nikki replied soothingly. “Illyich, you understand, as host, I must attempt to placate all my guests. Perhaps tonight I could persuade you to take Tanya instead of Cecelia,” he suggested politely, as though he were offering courteously the less blemished of two pears to a dinner guest.
“With pleasure!” Astrakan Illyich responded avidly. Tanya had been Nikki’s mistress for three months now, and no one dared approach her, but if Nikki were graciously relinquishing the girl, Illyich would be a fool to refuse the offer.