Sweet Love, Survive (21 page)

Whipping the reins free, she said stiffly, “Thank you, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Would—” It was too late. With a whirl of cold air Kitty put her horse into a canter. Dammit, Apollo thought angrily, running toward Leda, she didn’t look fine at all, but what the hell could he do about it now? No one in this hellish war-torn land was fine anymore. Not a man or woman, not a child or beast, so why in God’s name should they be any different? “Fine” had suffocated in the bloodbath of the Revolution long ago. Don’t think, just do what you have to. Novorossiisk. That was the goal. Maybe Kitty at least would be saved. He had Leda into a gallop before she had left the barnyard.

A thin winter sunlight shone on Novorossiisk when Kitty and Apollo reached it the next morning. The weak rays glanced off the dirty ice in the gutters and shimmered on the hardened, slick surface of old snow, littered with paper, blood, refuse. The icy
nord-ost
wind tore at their clothes and chilled skin. Owing to the White Army’s rolling back too rapidly, the city had become a madhouse in the last three weeks as every refugee rushing before the lethal Bolshevik sickle funneled into the last free seaport in Russia. Typhus was rampant—the deadly louse-carried virus had already killed more than two million people in the last three years. Dead bodies were everywhere, lying stripped of their clothing by those so desperate for warmth against the subzero cold that they took their chances with contaminated garments. The naked bodies lay in the streets, on the sidewalks, piled in mounds of frozen flesh.

The horses shied nervously, tossing their heads, snorting with fear at the scent of death, sidestepping the corpses as the group picked its way slowly through the littered streets. Most of the restaurants were closed; storefronts were boarded up. Lines before the shops that remained open were blocks long. Nearing the quays with the steamship offices, they could see mountains of luggage and furniture waiting to be loaded or left behind by refugees unable to pay the freight charges. The quays were also stacked with row upon row of field guns and towers of ammunition, supplies, equipment methodically being pushed into the icy waters of the bay rather than have them fall into Bolshevik hands.

Kitty tried to avoid the sight of the dead bodies, training her gaze at a point several feet above the street, but turning the last corner to dockside, the sound of dogs snarling drew her eye.

She reeled in the saddle. Three starving dogs were fighting over a small child’s frozen body.

Snatching at the bridle, Apollo twisted Kitty’s horse around and supported her, pinning his own horse hard to keep Kitty from falling. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “this is impossible.” After the merest hint of a pause, strong arms lifted Kitty. Curt orders were thrown to Karaim. Kitty’s horse was put on a lead. She felt the warmth of Apollo’s
burkha
close over her and leaned gratefully against his muscled chest.

Holding Kitty firmly, left-handed, the reins in his right, Apollo wheeled Leda and viciously spurred her. Answering his heels, she spun around and then raced through the polluted city, not slowing until they reached the foothills surrounding the harbor.

In the shelter of a small grove of cypress and leafless olives, the party dismounted. Feeling her feet touch ground, Kitty attempted to steady her trembling legs.

Apollo was genuinely worried at her weakness. She was pale as a wraith leaning against him. Lifting her away to more closely scrutinize her, he held her gently by the shoulders. Kitty swayed uncertainly.

Bending down, he looked at her closely. “Do you feel sick?” He put a hand to her forehead.

“I don’t think so,” Kitty whispered, her eyes only half-open. “Just all that … death. I think I fainted.”

At least she wasn’t hot. Burning with fever was a sure sign of typhus. Dropping his hand from her chalky face, he looked at her for a long time, then turned his eyes to the contaminated city. “You can’t sail out of Novorossiisk, that’s certain,” he stated firmly. “It’s too damn dangerous with all the tif.”

“What else can I do?” Kitty asked wearily, leaning her head into Apollo’s shoulder to keep herself upright. “If Peotr wants me to emigrate, I’d better,” she murmured into his
burkha
. “I’m supposed to meet him in Paris.”

Holding Kitty lightly in his arms, Apollo wondered moodily how the devil that little triangle in Paris was going to work out. Jesus, everything was becoming complicated.

Ever since leaving Stavropol—actually, ever since Kitty’s whereabouts had been ascertained—Apollo had been sulky. And with good reason. He wanted Kitty, damned if he didn’t, and it annoyed him. It annoyed him that he thought of her constantly. It annoyed him that she was so close and he wouldn’t let himself touch her, really touch her. She was someone else’s wife. She had been the general’s playmate for several weeks. Had she been coerced, or had she decided the exchange was profitable—her passion for a pampered existence? The sable, the rubies, the Poiret gown … Was she available to the highest bidder? Suddenly it mattered that he know—and that annoyed the hell out of him, too. Being the highest bidder didn’t present a problem; he had plenty of money, but whether he wanted someone for sale—that was the predicament.

Unfortunately, in the weeks since December Kitty had become his devil, his princess of desire, his glimpse of heaven as well as his burning fires of hell. Emotions pulled and tugged his feelings and desire around like playful gods of Olympus while logic stood aside from the melee and cautioned restraint. Apollo clenched his teeth in bitter irritation, the muscles high over his cheekbones twitching convulsively. Some decision had to be made, and rapidly.

Male pride and anger dictated it.

“We’ll try Tuapse,” he said flatly. “Maybe it’s not so goddamned squalid. Some ships there should be standing by.”

After a brief rest for tea they pushed on. On sheer willpower alone, Kitty mustered the energy to mount her own horse, but she no longer had the stamina to keep up. Several times in the next hours she fell behind, forcing the men to slow their pace. It didn’t help that food had been minimal and that she’d been cold for two days.

With the March sun well past its zenith, shining red across the low foothills bordering the Black Sea, they stopped again
to rest. When Kitty dismounted, her numbed feet and legs held her up only briefly before she fainted.

For a long time she heard distant voices, swinging to and fro like sunlight on quaking aspen, but they didn’t affect her, crushed as she was in the misery and chill of her own blackness. Low voices spoke in the vernacular; she recognized the word for fire … food … and her name. Her name? She tried to draw herself away from the darkness but all her energy had been drained. Reviving at last when the aching chill began to leave her blood, Kitty found herself in Apollo’s arms wrapped in his
burkha
and a fur robe, seated close to a fire Karaim and Sahin were briskly building up.

“What’s wrong,
dushka
? Tired? Is the pace too hard? Hungry?” Apollo quietly asked. For the first time since her rescue his tone was warm and concerned. Kitty looked up into his golden eyes, filled suddenly with tenderness, and decided to tell him the truth. If this was a dogged test of endurance, Apollo had resoundingly won. She would never be able to keep up on the journey to Tuapse—sooner or later some explanation would be necessary. Taking a deep breath for courage, Kitty said, “I’m pregnant.” Braced, she waited, apprehension filling her mind.

Pale eyes stared unmoving at Kitty. So
that’s
why there were adjustable latches, his mind declared. It was his very first thought. Then some very rapid calculations snapped through his brain, digesting, evaluating. She didn’t show any indications … the early months yet. “Will Peotr be pleased?” he inquired.

“I don’t think so,” she answered.

Well … that’s pretty clear, Apollo thought. “The general?” He quirked a brow.

“No,” Kitty said softly.

“No?” He seemed surprised. “Whose?” he asked quietly, more casually than he felt.

“Yours.” She had never before seen the blood drain from a man’s face. The sharp planes of Apollo’s skin became startlingly pale and his eyes, surprised and shimmering, turned
disconcertingly blank. He continued to stare at her and she was frightened.

Finally he took a whistling lungful of winter air, swallowed, and inquired gently, “Mine? Are you sure?” At which point all kinds of unflattering jealous suppositions came to his mind. How many other men had there been before and after him?

“I’m sure.”

His effort at self-control was apparent, but Apollo’s hands were trembling as he gripped Kitty’s face between his large palms. His voice, when he spoke, was forced. “Say it again,” he said in a queer sort of whisper. “Tell me again.” And in the ensuing silence he didn’t move, waiting for her answer, taut, expectant, his eyes no longer blank but piercingly alert.

Kitty was paralyzed by his behavior, shaken by his reaction; a reaction so much worse than her most morbid fears. Woodenly she repeated, “I’m sure.”

His hands fell away from her face. No equivocation, he mused. Give her credit for audacity. “The contest for your child’s paternity has been brisk, I’d say, these last few months. It’s friendly of you to declare me the winner. And you no doubt”—his mouth tightened into a lazy smile—“are the prize.” Abruptly his dark brows drew into a scowl. “God Almighty!” he growled. “What a damnable mess!!”

Kitty’s composure, already slim and fragile after weeks with the general and the long hours of the previous night, could carry no more pressure. With a brief, uncontrollable shudder, it snapped. Her lips quivered and a flood of tears burst forth. She was freezing. Exhausted. Lonely. Abandoned by her husband and now the recipient of the least comforting words a pregnant woman could hear: “What a mess.” Fresh tears sprang into her eyes and Kitty sobbed her heart out, dripping rivulets down her frigid cheeks.

Apollo gazed at her for a long moment. Why hadn’t she terminated her pregnancy? he wondered, his mind turning to the private hospital in Petersburg where society ladies used to have their abortions before the war. The last time he’d been
in Petersburg he’d noticed their retreat had been turned into a hospital for soldiers, and he had wondered where they went now—knowing that with so many embattled males around there must be quite a demand for that sort of thing. Slaughter and procreation are blood kin. He supposed in the turmoil of the White rout Kitty hadn’t known where to go for an abortion. It never occurred to him she would have chosen to keep the child. Bringing himself back from his musings, he reminded himself since she was going to have the child, the problem must be dealt with. He refocused on the woman in his arms.

Her sad eyes were enormous, her face as white as chalk, two dark half arcs of sleeplessness were like bookmarks on satin beneath her eyes. Yet despite the high tempered strain, her face was still beautiful, framed with heavy honey-rose waves of hair, her pale pink lips accenting her pallor. A beautiful Astrakhan princess. She shouldn’t cry, he decided. It wasn’t her fault he wanted her more than he should. He was no different from the general. They both wanted to own her, and now she was his for the asking. Was pride going to deny him his desire?

The question staring at him defied his impulses for thirty seconds. And then it occurred to him—the first positive thought in a snakepit of heinous emotions—that, outside of pride, there was nothing to stop him from going home … and taking Kitty with him. No husband to care, no Aladino to return to, no Russia left for them, only the mountains and … his home. He had, after all, lived most of his young life purely on impulse, bereft of a delicacy of morals, and on thinking it over, he decided, Why stop now?

His cool, golden stare softened and his face came to life despite the bitter cold and the exhaustion he was feeling. His hands moved tentatively, brushing Kitty’s face lightly, then suddenly his fingers sank into the gilded rivers of her hair. Bending, he kissed her fully on her cold mouth, and her rose lips opened slowly, softly, bewitching him with their promise.

She wept then in painful memory and thankfulness, her glossy pale hair streaming over his arm, the pulse of his
breathing warm and quiet against her cheek. He hugged her to him, cuddling her to his chest, murmuring endearments. As he clasped her with all his strength, Kitty pressed into him as if he were the only refuge in the world, and in the shelter of his big body, she could feel the shattering misery in her heart begin to thaw, melting from the warmth of his comforting arms and soft lovewords.

After long, breathless moments, Apollo’s arms released her and his tanned fingers caressed Kitty’s cheek tenderly. “We’re going home. Can you stand the trip into the mountains?”

Her big, moist emerald eyes mirrored her joy. She nodded.

“Good,” Apollo said—and he knew he had agreed to be the father of her child, whosever it was.

    The following week they traveled only by night, resting in deserted peasant huts, cellars, remote caravanserai, even caves—any shelter offering concealment from Red patrols. Since current news rarely penetrated to the rocky trails of the Caucasus foothills, they weren’t aware of the Red Army capture of Novorossiisk three days after their departure, no more than they knew that behind them by only days were sixty thousand Cossack troops of the Don and Terek. Left behind by the last ship in the bay, these scattered units of the White Army were attempting to break their way south and east to the tenuous freedom still available in Georgia. From their vantage point high on the mountain trails the small party could view the rapid massing and transport of thousands of Red troops westward along the north coast of the Black Sea, but they had no way of knowing the reasons for the vast deployments. They simply counted their blessings. With some urgent campaign drawing so many troops westward, their journey east would be that much safer. Living on wild game and nourishing Kalmuk tea, they traveled slowly over precarious mountain terrain.

Apollo was solicitous on the hard trek; helpful during Kitty’s bouts with nausea; attentive to her delicate stamina, carrying her with him on Leda more often than not. He kept the pace to one Kitty could manage, making sure she always had
the best of their food, the warmest position by the fire, all of the fur robe and burkha when they curled up together to sleep.