Silver Nights (26 page)

Sophie stood as far from Adam as she could on the outskirts of the group. She heard nothing of what he said, but simply
allowed his beloved voice to wash over her, purifying and revivifying. How could she contrive to be alone with him? Or would he do the contriving?
Scurrying around, hugger-mugger, trying to contrive a word, a kiss, a touch in dark corners, a squalid tumble between soiled sheets
. The dreadful word picture rang again in her ears.

“I must return to the empress,” she said, heedless that she had interrupted an exposition on how the southern sections of the River Dnieper had been widened for navigation by blowing up rocks and leveling sandbanks. “It is all most interesting, Count, but I cannot stay, I fear.” She hastily turned toward the divan, holding out her hand. “Prince, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Such as it was,” murmured the prince, a sardonic gleam in his one eye. He heaved himself from the divan, throwing off the appearance of affected disdain. “You have brightened my morning, Princess Dmitrievna.”

“If you are returning to Kiev, perhaps you will accept my escort, Princess.” Adam spoke casually, rolling up the map he had been using. “I have business at court.”

“I should be delighted.” The formal exchange, the ritual words, and it was done. She was sitting in the sleigh, Adam Danilevski beside her. The door closed, a whip cracked, and they glided forward over the snow.

Nothing was said. She turned within the circle of his arm, her lips parted, her glowing dark eyes consuming his countenance. Lifting one hand, she ran her palm over his face in curious wonder, feeling the living warmth of his skin, the firm moistness of his pressing lips, the silky flutter of his eyelashes.

Gently, with the same wonder, he made his own reexploration, a fingertip caressing her parted lips, painting the planes of her face, smoothing over her eyelids.

“Why did you not tell me about your wife?” She had not meant to ask it so abruptly, had she? But the words had spoken themselves.

His hand fell to his lap. “I suppose it was inevitable you would hear of it on some gossip's tongue.”

“It does not alter anything,” she said. “But I do not understand why you would not have mentioned it.”

“It is a piece of the past that had no relevance to the present,” he said quietly. “It would have relevance only to the future—the future we do not have, Sophie.” He shrugged. “I saw no point in discussing it.”

She sat, feeling chilled and empty. It was not unreasonable to say that such a fact had had no importance in the fairyland they had inhabited at Berkholzskoye. Yet the cold dismissal of her perceived right to have been told hurt most dreadfully. “Do you have any children?” She tried to make the inquiry sound simply curious, but the throb of anxiety in her voice could not be disguised. Adam merely shook his head in brusque negative. She swallowed, plunged. “How did your wife die?”

“They did not tell you?” A scornful, acid laugh cracked in the enclosed space. “It was an accident.”

And the child she was supposed to have been carrying? But clearly he was not going to mention that. And she could not ask. The words would not form themselves. Whatever the truth of that, it was his to keep. She had transgressed sufficiently with her questions.

She leaned back against the fur-covered seat, closing her eyes against the pain. Her body ached for his, for the conjoining of flesh and spirit, yet they were as far apart in this tiny, private, gliding space as Siberia is from Moscow. Then she felt his breath rustle across her cheeks, his mouth cover hers. Her head fell back, neck arched against the seat back. His hand slid over the vulnerable, opened column, tracing her jaw as his tongue pressed deep within her mouth. She received this kiss; her mouth was the passive receptacle possessed by the conquering, insistent one above. And in the passivity was to be found a blissful yielding of pain, of doubt, of the need to act and to decide. Her hands lay open on the seat at her sides, palms up, fingers curled; her throat arched white above the dark fur of her cloak; her eyelashes spread, sable half-moons against the delicate pink-and-cream complexion.

Adam drew back and her eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes opened, looking into the intent, passion-filled gaze hanging over her. “I
do not know how this is to be managed.” The usual light tenor of his voice was lost in the deep resonance of desire. “How closely watched are you?”

Her head moved in languid negative against the seat. “Not at all. Paul rarely comes near me, except in public. I do not know if he questions Maria, but I come and go so freely she could never be certain where I was, or with whom.”

“Then I will see what I can contrive. Such liaisons are conducted all over the city. I am sure there must be commonly known methods of facilitating them.” His tone was neutral, but Sophie could hear his distaste and it shook her out of her languor.

“Adam, love, if you do not wish for this, then we do not have to—”

“Don't be foolish! At least let us be honest in
this
. Being near you, I cannot deprive myself of your sweetness, of your body, of loving your body with mine. I told you the way it would be. I have neither the strength of spirit nor of flesh.”

The words of love and passion came out with the angry force of body blows, and Sophie flinched at the implicit accusation. She was responsible for this self-directed derision because she had been too incontinent herself to accept the clean break that would have brought some measure of peace.

The sleigh drew to a halt. Her hand fluttered toward his cheek—in apology, in appeal, Sophie did not know. Adam regarded her gravely for an instant. “I will tell you where to come to me as soon as I have made the necessary arrangements.” He swung open the door, sprang lightly to the ground, and reached out his hand courteously to assist her to alight.

“Thank you, Count,” she said in a dull tone. How could there be so much anger and resentment where there was an infinity of loving need and surpassing desire? How could he speak so coldly about arrangements for an assignation, when a minute before she had been pierced with his longing for her, awash with her own? He had treated her curiosity about his marriage with the indifferent contempt one accorded an inquisitive gossip, so that
she
felt at fault—not just for asking about it, but for knowing about it. Her interest was considered imper
tinent and irrelevant because Adam Danilevski's past could only be of importance to her if she had a future with Adam Danilevski; something that was not to be.

 

Methodically, and with the cool efficiency he would bring to preparations for a military exercise, Adam set about organizing his affair with the wife of General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. A word or two dropped in the mess elicited an address: A small hunting cottage on the banks of the river, some three versts from Kiev, offered a secluded trysting place. Only money was required to ensure that it would be empty whenever he needed it, fires and refreshment provided by peasant hands—hands that would disappear at least an hour before the count was expected.

The court calendar being common property, it was a simple matter to pick an afternoon empty of official engagements, when Princess Dmitrievna could reasonably be excused attendance on the empress.

Directions, the day and time of the assignation, were committed to paper. Not once did his blood race at the prospect of an afternoon of love in a cottage on the banks of the frozen river. He was as coldly detached as if he were making these arrangements for some other pair of illicit lovers snatching a clandestine hour or two for the hasty and imperative satisfaction of their lust.

He picked the occasion for instructing his mistress with the same dispassionate care. Catherine was giving audience to petitioners from all over the countryside in one of her open receptions, when she received the most humble muzhiks, accepted their obeisance as they prostrated themselves before her, then listened with the utmost attention to the problems of a village, domestic or agricultural, questioning the peasants in detail about the dried-up well, the murrain that had destroyed a herd of cattle. There was not an issue, however insignificant, that she did not accord her full attention.

Sophie was in attendance, as usual, sitting with Prince de Ligne and Comte de Ségur, who made no attempt to conceal their fascination with this aspect of the empress and her subjects. “Is it customary, Princess, for a peasant to call his em
press, Little Mother?” The Comte de Ségur raised a questioning eyebrow. “Such familiarity is extraordinary. In France it would be unheard of.”

Sophie smiled. “The relationship of the Russian to his sovereign is complex, Comte. He reveres her as a divinity, yet worships her as a mother. You notice that they use the familiar second-person form of address and Her Imperial Majesty responds—oh—” she broke off. “Count Danilevski. Are you too come with a petition for Her Majesty?” She smiled archly, although her heart lurched, and a mist dewed her palms. They had had no speech since the sleigh ride. She had glimpsed him across a salon, a courtyard, heard his voice occasionally, but until now he had never come close enough to acknowledge her presence.

“My message is for you, Princess, as it happens,” he said easily, bowing as he handed her a folded paper. “Prince Dmitriev desired me to give you this. He is occupied with a review at present.”

“Oh, yes, he said he would send me some details for tomorrow's procession.” Sophie slipped the paper into her reticule, wondering at how readily one developed these skills at deception. “We were just discussing the peculiarities of the Russian's relationship with his sovereign, Count. It is very different in Poland, I understand.”

“Poland as it now exists, Princess, bears little resemblance to the nation of my childhood,” Adam replied. “Then it was clear to whom a Pole owed his allegiance.” He shrugged. “Now, except for the tiny minority still under the sovereignty of the king of Poland, an Austrian, Russian, or Prussian demands allegiance. Indeed, even in minuscule Poland, the Russian ambassador is the real ruler. Stanislas Poniatowski is a puppet king and has always been so.”

“Those are strong words, Count.” Prince de Ligne spoke gently, yet with ill-concealed interest.

With a smile and a word, Sophie excused herself. She had known her question would elicit the reaction from Adam that it had. His feelings about the country of his birth and his confused sense of nationality had not been kept from her. She understood
that in many ways it was now an intellectual issue for him rather than an emotional one, and the conversational diversion she had presented them gave her the natural opportunity to leave the ambassadors, whose entertainment was her responsibility during the audiences, whilst taking attention away from the message-passing.

The message was terse, no words of love and promise, simply precise directions, a time set for the following afternoon, the curt instruction to come alone and on horseback. Did he really think she would arrive at a lover's hideaway in a sleigh complete with driver?

A prickle of unease, a spurt of misgiving deep in her belly, took the edge off anticipation's delight. Adam didn't want this. He did not want it, but he could not help himself from taking it. Where was the joy in that? Where was love's light touch? Was there only to be the weight of lust? Was this what he had known would happen when he painted that dreadful picture of sordid scrabbling? Or was he determined to fulfill his own prophecy, forcing her participation in the fulfillment?

The following afternoon, these questions about to be answered, Sophie rode along the bank of the river, the instructions engraved on her brain so that she had no need to consult the paper in the pocket of her habit. A little bridge appeared exactly where it was supposed to. She turned her horse to cross over the frozen water. The air was crisp, but the bite of winter had gone from it and the sun's power could be felt. The ice glistened damply as the surface melted, and the snow beneath the horse's hooves had turned to slush. A flock of ducks rose from the marshes lining the far bank; wings outstretched, they swooped low over the river, crying in mournful alarm at Sophie's approach.

Her hand went to the pistol fastened to her saddle. Then she shook her head in annoyance. The action had been the automatic one of an inveterate hunter, but ducks were not her quarry this afternoon.

Adam stood in the doorway of the cottage, looking along the river, waiting for his first sight of her. The peace was profound, not a sign of human occupancy in the sunlit, white, gleaming
landscape. It should have brought him a matching peace as he waited for the woman he loved, but he could find no feeling but weary disillusion in his soul. This was no solution—a snatched afternoon in a borrowed cottage. Where had Eva conducted her little adventures? The thought intruded in its ugliness. Of course, in the absence of the husband she would not have had to scurry in corners. Perhaps she took her lovers from the household staff, virile young lackeys and grooms all eager and willing to serve the mistress.

With an exclamation of disgust, Adam swung on his heel, going back into the cottage. Wine, olives, a plate of cakes stood upon the table; the stove glowed warmly; the divan was spread with cashmere shawls. The perfect picture of the perfect love nest. Impatiently, he went outside again. Sophie was cantering toward him on an ordinary-looking mount that did not do her justice. But Khan had been left in safety with Boris Mikhailov at Berkholzskoye.

“Oh, what a pretty place.” Laughing, glowing, sparkling, she came up to him, throwing her leg across the saddlebow as she sprang energetically to the ground. “How clever of you, love.”

“These things can be arranged, as I told you,” he heard himself say almost distantly, when he wanted to laugh with her, take pleasure with her in their surroundings, carry her into the cottage to the soft divan and the stove's warmth.

Uncertainty scudded across Sophie's mobile countenance; hurt swam in the dark eyes. Then, resolutely she smiled again, pulling off her fur hat, tossing back her hair as it tumbled over her shoulders. “Show me inside. If it is half as pretty as the outside, it must be enchanting.” She reached for his hand, refusing to be daunted by the lack of response, pulling him to the door. “Oh, it is enchanting! An enchanted cottage!” She turned into his arms, standing on her toes to kiss him, holding his head firmly between her hands.