Sweet Love, Survive (13 page)

“Madame, my apologies for housing you in such mediocre lodgings. Alas,” he continued with cool mockery, “the viceroy’s palace is out of reach until we take Tiflis.”

When Kitty’s face paled at the certain confidence in his declaration, General Beriozov drawled with lazy cruelty, “No more than a month, Countess, and you will be living in the elegant luxury to which you’re accustomed.”

Kitty shivered involuntarily at the prospect of the entire south of Russia conquered. Peotr gone—dead, wounded, buried somewhere. And Apollo. She almost wept at the prospect of so vital a man, obliterated from the world and from her life. Only superhuman resolution kept the tears from falling. Kitty’s wet, shiny eyes did not go unnoticed by the acutely perceptive general. Satisfied his cutting remarks had struck home, he said with renewed amiability, “But enough of the future, Countess. Glorious as the prospects are, one must not lose sight of the prosaic present. Come now, my dear, as my hostess tonight, I have need of your finesse in some matters. Tell me. May a colonel be seated on my right or must a major general take precedent?” Switching from his menacing manner to his affable personality, the general was all goodwill and warm solicitude in an irreverent sort of way as he pulled Kitty, pale and numb, around the lavishly appointed table which gleamed with gold, crystal, and fine china.

The seating cards were exchanged, although Kitty’s instructions were barely audible. All she could think of was the end of everyone and everything she had ever known.

“And about the soup course … May I call you Katherine?” the general inquired in a dangerously smooth tone. “After all, we shall soon be, er, intimate friends.”

Kitty flushed at the sarcasm and frantically assessed her chances of escaping the room, the hotel, Stavropol. Cold resignation soon replaced the momentary impulse to flight. She would be recaptured before reaching the door of the suite. “Yes,” she said, yielding to his position of strength.

“In that case, call me Dmitri.”

I’d choke on the word, Kitty thought.

“Now then,” the general continued blandly, ignoring her silence. “There seem to be two approaches to the soup course. Shall we serve it first, in the French fashion, or as a third course in the Russian style? And the salad—should it be separate in the French manner?”

“Third for the soup, and no, not separate for the salad.”

“So positive?”

“We’ve always served them that way.”

The general put two fingers to his brow and closed his eyes briefly. “Of course, I should have known.” We always have. His already fragile equanimity was goaded by a flash of pique at the inimitable tone of assurance exhibited by the dainty lady at his side, whom he could break with his bare hands if he cared to.

An extra measure of discipline tonight, he promised himself. No cowering creature here at all. For the first time in his life he considered a woman as something other than mindless chattel. This comely young woman refused to fit into any of the usual female categories. An interesting challenge, he mused with a certain dispassionate fairness; no previous female had ever provoked such anticipatory interest. Let no one mistake the extent of the general’s sense of fair play, however. Mysterious and piquant the challenge may be, but in his world only one winner was allowed—and General Beriozov hadn’t shouldered his way to the command of an army division by turning the other cheek. He achieved what he sought at all costs. No scruples stood in his way, and many anonymous graves marked the path of his ascent to power.

“And the flowers?” he continued pleasantly, years of military discipline restraining the niggling impulse to strike out at someone.

“White would be better. The red of the roses clashes terribly with the wallcovering.” Kitty’s eyes swept the over-decorated room. “And the velvet cover of the mantelpiece should be removed. It’s quite bourgeois.” Glancing at the
ladened zakuski table, she added, “I hope the chocolates are from Ballet.”

The general searched Kitty’s face for a brief moment, trying to decide if she was deliberately nettling him. Kitty only shrugged her lovely white shoulders and returned his stare. “You asked me,” she said. The countess looked, the general thought with a pang of fury, roughly as humble as Catherine the Great; Queen Tamara of the Georgians discarding a tiresome lover might have worn such a look. Even their goddamn chocolates had to be from the right store. She’ll pay tonight, by God, he silently vowed.

“Ivan!” the general bellowed in a voice that had no doubt been used above the roar of battle on many occasions.

In seconds a servant came running into the room. “Get rid of all these red roses,” Beriozov snapped, jerking a finger toward the table. “Immediately! Bring white ones! And that velvet cover over there—take it away. Hurry!” he shouted to the sprinting servant who was already halfway out the door carrying two vases of crimson roses.

Moving to a sideboard that held several bottles of champagne cooling in a magnificent silver monteith, the general carefully opened a bottle and filled two glasses. Kitty stood near the long dining table set for a score of guests and wondered if it might be better to die after all than survive under these conditions. Later, after the dinner party was over—she cringed at the sordid image of what might follow, then continued her train of thought—after the general was asleep, it would be very simple to swallow the morphine in her traveling bag. To go to sleep and never wake … mightn’t that be easier? Only the physical reality of Apollo’s child, the very real presence of a part of him beneath her heart, tempered the overwhelming desire to simply give up.

Could she really contemplate killing his child? Even if Apollo didn’t survive the war, a child of his to hold and love would be a reminder of the happiest days of her life—days and memories given to her by a warm, loving, tumultuously sensual man who had made her smile and laugh and had
taught her to love. Merely thinking of his child made her yearn to hold it close. And if it was any consolation, she wasn’t alone in her misery. All across Russia millions of people were doing what they had to do to survive. All the polite rules and courtesies had fallen by the wayside, bludgeoned to death, torn apart by the bestial wave of revolution. She could and would join the ranks of the survivors, if for no other reason than for Apollo’s child. In her musing she could almost picture Apollo’s languid smile, lighting up his eyes, fine teeth shining white against his sun-bronzed face as he laughingly said, “Live, sweet
dushka
, to love me another day. Live, come what may, with or without me, for there’s pleasure in life and none in dying.”

Reality reintroduced itself. The general was handing her a glass of champagne. Kitty shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“I’d like you to join me.” Although the words were pleasant, his chill voice was not.

Kitty’s hand accepted the glass. Lesson number one, she thought, in the new primer of survival.

“To us, Katherine,” the general proposed. Kitty hesitated, unnerved by the prospect of responding to such a toast. She had never been coerced in her life, and each new devastating discovery was appalling.

“To us,” she finally managed to whisper, lifting the glass to her mouth, and lesson two was shakily concluded.

Powerful fingers stayed the glass short of her lips. “To us … who?” Beriozov softly demanded.

Their gaze held for a full five seconds and Kitty contemplated the vicious gleam deep within the general’s narrowed eyes. “To us … Dmitri,” Kitty quietly capitulated, and lesson three was accomplished.

And so the evening went, the general gently forcing, the lady reluctantly complying—an amusing sparring match for the former, and a grim education in survival for the latter.

    All too soon the last course was served, the last jest, compliment, tactical strategy bandied about. At opposite ends of
the table the general and his new hostess had superintended a faultless dinner party.

The guests were an assortment of officers and their companions from various ranks of society, ranging from well-bred ex-army officers who had joined the Red Army for a variety of reasons
¹⁰
to those from the coarsest of peasant backgrounds. Occasionally Kitty detected a note of sadness in the eyes of some from the old regime, but after several bottles of champagne had been broached, a certain degree of gaiety prevailed amongst all. In truth, Kitty felt herself the least able to condemn those officers who had changed their allegiance and now wore Red Army uniforms. Wasn’t she doing the same? Capitulating to stay alive?

As the evening wore on, Kitty drank more champagne than she was used to, for the general signaled the footman to replenish her glass whenever a toast was concluded. At heart, she wasn’t particularly averse to overimbibing—the liquor would dull her senses for the inevitable conclusion of the evening. Merely the thought of having Beriozov touch her intimately drove her hand frequently to the stem of her champagne flute, and a great deal of bubbly wine passed down her throat. While her senses numbed, however, her foreboding became if anything more acute.

By two in the morning the general had waited quite long enough to try out his new paramour and he curtly bade good night to his guests. Within minutes the apartment was empty, the servants dismissed as well.

“Now, my dear,” General Beriozov said, lounging at his ease on a large brocade-covered sofa, “perhaps you would undress for me.”

Kitty stood very still, steadying herself with one hand on a small tea table. “I’d rather not,” she said with the flatness of apprehension.

His cool gray eyes were unmoved. “But I want you to,” he said without emotion.

Oh, God, now what, Kitty fearfully thought. After a pause, she said, “Could I at least have some privacy?” Her knuckles were white on the applewood tea table.

“It’s perfectly private. I’ve dismissed everyone.”

She still hesitated, then whispered, “Must I?”

“Don’t be a fool, my dear,” he said acidly. “Your choices are limited. Either you undress yourself or I’ll undress you, and I’m much more pleasant if my orders are followed. You haven’t seen my collection of silk whips. They’re quite elegant, and rarely leave a mark.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Kitty forced her hand up to the tiny sapphire studs, arranged diagonally down the bias-cut bodice of the blue dress.

General Beriozov leaned his head back and unhooked the collar of his uniform. “Go slowly, Katherine,” he ordered quietly. “Very slowly.”

Her fingers were trembling so much that it was simple enough to obey that command. Minutes passed before all the buttons were properly unfastened. Neither spoke. The ticking of the mantel clock sounded unduly loud in the hushed stillness of the room. Kitty proceeded as if hypnotized by the general’s pale, piercing eyes, shocked at what she was forced to do but obligated by the requirements of survival. Her mind seemed to divide from her actions, as if her dignity could retreat unviolated to an innermost part of her being.

When all the studs were undone, Kitty slipped her arms out and the blue dress dropped down her slim hips and swished in a soft, silky breath to the deep pile of the Tabriz carpet.

The general caught his breath involuntarily. Kitty’s shoulders were bare and white; wisps and ringlets of her pale gold hair floated free of the heavy coils pinned high on her head and lay in arabesques on the ivory velvet of her shoulders.

She wore a thin lace chemise, delicate and ephemeral. Looking straight ahead, her deep green eyes unfocused, she deliberately raised her shaking hands and pushed down both shoulder straps. As the front of the chemise slipped lower, more and more of the soft slope of her breasts became visible, the deep cleft between them widening as the lace fabric eased itself almost to each nipple.

She held her head high, but about her eyes was a sadness and resignation, like a captive from an age long ago. She was indeed captive, although, astonishingly, it was the twentieth century; she was undressing under duress, dropping one by one the prerogatives of her independence. But her brooding resignation and sullen beauty challenged the general more acutely than the most avid, wanton response. Beriozov sat transfixed by the lady’s instinctual grace and pride, her deliberate, resigned movements. A powerful, pleasurable surge of feeling swept through him. In all his variety he had never possessed such beauty.

Kitty’s hands returned to her chemise, holding it up in a gesture of modesty. Her eyes begged the general to call a halt to this agony.

Without taking his chill, smoky eyes off Kitty, the general raised his hand in the gesture of a man accustomed to total obedience and pointed his finger down, firmly and deliberately.

Kitty loosened her grip and the filmy chemise dropped around her waist. Her breasts were completely exposed, full, firm, splendid, the large round aureoles rising audaciously like rose-tinted buds on ivory sculpture. The general’s gaze slid downward to her bare breasts and lingered in rapt attention. His lust licked out and touched Kitty like a living carnivore.

A frozen moment passed and suddenly the general’s anticipatory waiting ended. Rising swiftly, he strode to her and, facing her, cupped his hands under her breasts; with his thumbs he caressed her nipples. Kitty shuddered and closed her eyes. His touch was repellent. The caresses moved from her nipples to the entire breasts, the general’s large, coarse hands kneading and stroking. Kitty submitted silently although her senses let out an inner scream of torment.

When his fingers moved to her waist, she whispered, “Please … let me get dressed. Please.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Beriozov muttered, deaf to her pleas, his fingers already unfastening the hooks on her slip. When it, too, fell to the floor, the smooth white flesh of Kitty’s
thighs was exposed above her gartered stockings. In a carnal frenzy the general dropped to his knees and buried his face between the cool whiteness of her legs.

The contact chilled her with icy horror. “Don’t … don’t, my God, no!” Kitty begged in a moment of uncontrollable panic. She pushed against him, hopelessly twisting, but he held her mercilessly. To a man who could ruthlessly massacre entire villages and then sit down to an evening meal, Kitty’s protests were quite futile.