Sweet Love, Survive (25 page)

“I, Kitty, take thee, Apollo”—her voice was as soft as a rose petal—“with all my heart, to have and to hold, from this day forward.…” Kitty felt a warm enchantment, felt young and new and innocent, as if her life had only begun tonight with the man she loved. Apollo had found her, had come for her through danger and war; guards hadn’t stopped him, nor generals with proprietary designs. Neither distance nor battlefields had mattered and she knew, really knew, he loved her. That knowledge filled her with a bliss so perfect and true it was as if, for her, the world was born afresh tonight.

“From this day forward. …” Apollo echoed, and when their lips first touched, a piercing sweetness insinuated itself like the fragrant warmth of springtime into the fullness of their hearts.

•   •   •

He had never been so careful in his life. His hands moved over Kitty like the whisper of fireflies in moonlight. She had been through so much; he never wanted her hurt again. And the presence of the child—so new and different—that, too, made him cautious. But before long in his own special way, he brought the small, soft woman beneath him to a blazing, wild excitement, and when her hands clung to his sinewed shoulders and tangled in his hair with a madness that wouldn’t end until their flesh became one, he moved his body down over hers and very slowly gave her what she wanted, what they both wanted—the bewitching deliverance memory had kept alive since the long-ago days in December.

Lingering hours passed sleepless, playing at love, and the moon dropped low on the dawn horizon. Apollo lay sprawled on the bed, one arm gently cradling the fair woman sleeping curled against him. His eyes swept the familiar room, contentment seeping into every bone, nerve, and tissue of his body. His golden eyes swung back to gaze out the wall of windows before him, and a snow-capped panorama of mountain peaks, orchards, fields, and village lay spread before him, frosted with the tinsel of early light: all peace, rest, protected, and … his. Prince Apollo Kuzan, As-saqr As-saghir, the Falcon, was home.

The next two weeks were idyllic. They rarely saw anyone. Apollo politely refused several dinner invitations from Iskender-Khan and since the old chieftain had a very keen memory, recalling what young love was like, he didn’t impose his will as he could have. In the course of the next fortnight, Apollo and Kitty
did
dine at the citadel occasionally and it was plain to see, the other guests remarked, the Young Falcon had found his heart’s mate.

They spent long blissful hours in the tumbled disarray of the enormous tortoiseshell bed. Exquisite pleasure was exchanged, savored, experienced with a new tenderness as well as a new intensity. What he asked for, she gave. What she craved, he lovingly proffered. It was a paradise of the senses.

One morning two weeks later, Apollo excused himself for a short conference with Karaim, who had stopped by to see him. When he returned, the remainder of the day was leisurely dissipated, but that night, Kitty woke to find Apollo lying sleepless, his arms locked behind his head, his pale eyes staring unseeing at the elaborately stuccoed ceiling.

The following day, Apollo lapsed into a retrospective musing on more than one occasion, and late that night, Kitty lay and listened to the incessant whisper of Apollo’s footsteps pacing the sitting room carpet.

By the third day after Karaim’s appearance, Apollo’s restlessness was painfully obvious. He seemed to strain like a borzoi on a leash. Later that evening he was as sociable as a Trappist monk, Kitty ruefully noted—a troubled, reticent man, his mind obviously distracted. Before retiring for the
night, they lounged in front of the fire, Kitty stroking the tense muscles in Apollo’s neck, bracing herself to ask the needed question. Everything had been so perfect, after literally years of unhappiness, that she had stubbornly resisted endangering such undiluted joy.

When Apollo rose abruptly and strode to the window, she finally forced herself to ask, “What did Karaim say?”

Apollo didn’t turn. He leaned his forehead against the cool window pane and said flatly, “A raid’s in the planning.” Standing motionless, his form was lost in shadow.

“How does that concern you?”

“I’m their leader.”

“Is the raid necessary?”

“It’s a way of life for a mountain warrior. Their blood and upbringing guide them. Too long at home, well fed, well rested, and under exercised, they begin looking for trouble and end up fighting each other.”

“Let them go without you.”

“I can’t,” he said with an almost helpless simplicity.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Kitty countered insistently. “If you’re their leader, you can do anything you want. There’s—”

Apollo’s voice, carrying a resonant power, cut across her words. “It’s not that easy. Honor’s involved. Raids, warfare, fighting are a warrior’s life. The foundation for his existence, for his family’s existence, for the life of the aul. If you give that up … you relinquish being a man.”

“It sounds positively feudal.”

“Maybe it is, but it’s the way I’ve been raised. I’ve lived here all my life, except for the time in the Corps de Pages and during the war. I share the same blood. I’m all that they are—my great-grandfather’s prejudices, my father’s spirit, my mother’s love. I’m Karaim’s cavalry experience, the courage of my first horse, part of a brotherhood of warriors that have never been conquered. I can’t tear these things from my heart.”

Although Apollo had lived for a time in the aristocratic milieu of Petersburg and Paris, his spirit had always remained
in the mountains, and he kept with him the tough, esoteric core of the mountain world. Society, the court, even the officers’ corps were superficial accoutrements to his sense of being, his masculine ethos which had slowly and simply been instilled in him until it was as natural as breathing. And in a way, it was as important. At least, this particular raid was. Maybe later some of the others could leave without him, but this one he would command himself.

Karaim had come to tell him three days ago that General Beriozov was now resting in Sochi before moving east. They could reach him in five days of hard riding. And all Apollo could think of, the only desire filling his mind, was that of sinking his
kinjal
into the evil heart of the man who had abused and humiliated Kitty. Images of Kitty and the general overwhelmed him with a merciless, impotent rage.

Yesterday, Karaim’s report had been followed by a message from Pushka informing him that horses and supplies were ready—the men only waited his decision to mount up. Now unstirring, Apollo stared out into the darkness and his lust for vengeance grew, uncurbed and violent.

Her eyes on the back of the motionless man, Kitty ran her hands nervously over her silk-trousered legs. “Please don’t go, Apollo,” Kitty pleaded, sensing somehow that this was no ordinary foray, trying to understand Apollo’s feelings, but fighting her own terrible fear. “I know how much it means to you but please don’t go. For me—for the baby. …”

Apollo shut his eyes briefly, his head still resting against the cool glass, his knuckles and nails yellow white with pressure on the dark windowsill. Did she think he
wanted
to leave her? Good Lord, it was the last thing he
wanted
to do. But mountain law required that an insult be avenged—and even if the Adat hadn’t demanded retribution, his heart would have claimed that justice. He could not rest until that pig who had dared to penetrate his woman was dead, and if there was time, he promised himself the general would stay alive much longer than he wished.

Pushing away from the window, Apollo turned to Kitty, who was still sitting on the floor before the fire. She looked
up at him, standing tall above her, his powerful body defined in the shadowy chiaroscuro of the flickering flames, his face restless, illuminated by the amber glare. He sighed softly, releasing some of the tension that had been building over the last three days. “Let’s not argue about this anymore; it’s senseless. You know I love you. I’d do anything for you.” His voice was placating but cautious.

Tears were sliding down Kitty’s ivory cheeks, catching the firelight in staccato sparkles. “Don’t go on the raid, then.”

It tore at his heart to hurt her. “Anything,” he said very gently, “except that.”

Hours later, after the expected accusations and recriminations, the quiet tears and heart-stricken apologies, Kitty lay asleep in Apollo’s arms. He was wretched at having to leave her, understood her perplexity, but he could no more deny himself the need to punish the general than he could deny his love for Kitty.

Mountain law demanded vengeance, the chivalrous warrior code demanded it, but most of all, a savage blood lust deep inside Apollo demanded it. A dozen times a day he remembered the night in Stavropol, remembered the way Beriozov’s large hand had leisurely caressed Kitty’s bared breasts, remembered the towering rage that had possessed him, and remembered most of all the necessity for curbing his murderous mood. That necessity was past. Kitty was safe. He was saddened by his leaving, but finally reconciled: he’d be back soon; he had promised her.

But in case he didn’t return …? Even with his troop of riders, the possibility existed, Apollo knew, since General Beriozov lived behind a front line phalanx of guards and subalterns. The general lived warily, conscious of the thousands of deaths that bloodied his hands. He wouldn’t be easy to get to.

Without disturbing her, Apollo shifted slightly, gently easing Kitty’s head from his shoulder. Slipping a pillow under the tumble of shimmering gilt waves, he covered her and slid from the bed. Walking barefoot into the sitting room, he lit a lamp, pulled out a sheet of heavy paper from the drawer of
the faded rosewood writing table, and sat down to compose a good-bye note.

He deliberated for long moments. How did one put down on a page of paper all that was in one’s heart—and worst of all, how did one say good-bye to the love of one’s life? If he were killed on this raid, he wanted to tell Kitty how much she meant to him, how she had brought him joy and changed his life; he wanted to try to explain again why he had to go; wanted to express his regret at not being there to help her raise the baby. And business matters should be mentioned: his will, newly revised since their return to the mountains; the European bank accounts; the homes he owned in Dagestan, Nice, Geneva, Paris, the Loire valley; the stud farm in Kent; the hunting box in Normandy—all left to her and the child in the event of his death. There was too much to say … and so little time. He contented himself finally with telling her of his love, his strong hand moving swiftly across the sheet, the dark scrawl rapidly filling the cream-colored surface. Turning the thick paper over, he added two more lines acknowledging the complicated financial interests by writing, “If I don’t return, see Pushka. You and the child are my beneficiaries.” With a quiet sigh, he finished, “I’ve loved you, kitten, from the first night, and always shall. Give the baby a kiss from me. All my love, Apollo.”

Quickly sealing the note, he put it in a larger envelope addressed to his great-grandfather and took it to one of the servants with instructions to have it delivered immediately.

Returning to bed, he slept restlessly until daybreak.

He and Kitty said good-bye in the breakfast room.

“Don’t come out,” he suggested, rising from his chair. “There are too many people about to properly bid you adieu.” He was trying to avoid any further hardship on her.

Kitty stood up, fighting back the terrible fear haunting her, trying to present a brave front despite her distress.

One look at her face and in three strides Apollo was at her side, drawing her into his arms. He was dressed all in black; silk
beshmet
, heavy worsted trousers, leather boots—only his sunlit hair dazzled. Against such somber hue, Kitty in her
Chinese silk robe, small, fragile, golden as a sunrise, contrasted starkly, like a rare orchid clinging to a towering, dark tree.

“Please, be careful,” she whispered into the curve of his chest. Kitty was well aware of the dangers waiting outside the protected mountain valley. Reports had it that the Red Army had taken Azerbaijan and was marching on Georgia’s borders.

“I’m always careful.” The soft silk of her robe felt warm beneath his hands. He buried his face in the perfume of her hair.

“When will you be back?” It was no more than a hesitant murmur.

Five days down, five back, he thought, maybe one or two days to reconnoiter the general’s defenses. “Probably in two weeks,” Apollo said, lifting his head. “Maybe a day or two sooner.” He didn’t want to continue any further discussion about the raid. Hours last night had been devoted to the subject and at best a reluctant stalemate existed between them on that score. Above all, he wanted to leave without acrimony. It might be the last time he ever saw Kitty, or held her. His embrace tightened. “I love you, remember that,” he said softly. “Take care of the baby.”

Kitty looked up anxiously. An ominous apprehension gripped her. Apollo sounded so … final. “You’ll really be back in two weeks?” Her voice was tinged with fear.

“I’ll be back.”

“Promise?” She knew it was a childish demand, but she needed the blanket assurance.

He nodded to please her. “Promise.” His golden eyes took in every detail of Kitty’s exquisite face, storing away the memory against an uncertain future. Then his arms dropped away. “The men are waiting. Au revoir.” He kissed her lightly and strode from the room.

Kitty listened unmoving to the light footfall passing down the long hall and swiftly descending the stairs. With the slam of the front door she ran from the breakfast room and climbed to the high terrace affording a view of the courtyard and trail leading down into the valley. She watched Apollo, heard his
familiar voice, unfamiliarly crisp, giving last-minute instructions, saw his face totally without expression, all the graceful nuances swept clean as he concentrated on details, questions, the buckling on of his arsenal. Weapons on, tack checked, all the men mounted, Apollo, in the lead, turned Leda out of the courtyard and a moment later put her to a trot down the incline. The men followed in pairs, the narrow trail accommodating no more than two horses abreast.