Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm

by Susan Johnson

  Ibrahim Bey's young and handsome nephew dropped like a slaughtered sheep.

  Without so much as a glance Alistair stepped over the still body and ran to Zena's bedroom. Entering the lamplit room, he perceived immediately what had happened. Alistair slammed the door shut.

  Zena lay unconscious on the rumpled bed. Although her hands were free, Alistair discerned the silk cord tossed carelessly aside and saw the red welts on her wrists. Her night dress had been pulled down hastily over her thighs, but vestiges of Abdul's passion stained the silken fabric.

  Alistair was seized with a sudden urge to kill the savage animal who had violated this woman who meant so much to him. A tremor of uncontrollable fury gripped him, and his hands clenched and unclenched convulsively at his sides. He whirled on his heel, intent on murdering the fallen Arab in the hallway if the cur wasn't already dead. The beast deserved no less. As his hand touched the door latch, Zena moaned weakly.

  Dashing back to the bed, he gently raised the half-conscious, half-clothed woman into his arms. Zena's eyes fluttered open. The earl exhaled a sigh of relief and tightened his hold on her soft shoulders.

  "Alistair," Zena whispered shakily. "Oh, Alistair." She trembled under his fingers while tears streamed down her cheeks. "Thank God you came. He . . . he . . . was taking me away."

  "Hush, hush, my sweet," he soothed. "It's all over. I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you." He tightened his grip on her. "You must marry me. You can't live alone. Say you'll marry me now. Say yes, my darling."

  Zena looked up into his kind, warm eyes and shuddered at the frightful memory of what had just passed. If Alistair hadn't come to save her, she would have spent the rest of her life in a Turkish harem.

  "Say you will, dear Zena," Alistair insisted gently.

  Zena had never felt so dreadfully alone and helpless as in the past hour. She had always prided herself on being resolute and persevering, always able to cope with her many problems. But tonight the feeling of utter, appalling despair had been overwhelming while the thought of being spirited away to spend the rest of her life as a brood mare in some faraway seraglio had been terrifying in its imminence. The possibility of that long, dreary, endless life in such a prison had broken her proud spirit. She was at the moment truly afraid to be alone, and she suddenly needed the affection Alistair offered or maybe the security, or maybe the passion.

  Zena gazed into Alistair's gentle eyes and out of weakness and fear whispered, "Yes, I will." Her future lay not with the dream of Sasha, who was lost to her forever, but with the reality of Alistair, and she wisely accepted the fact. She purposely reminded herself of the deep wound of Sasha's savage rejection, and the pain helped her face the future. Today she began a new life.

  Alistair's face lit with unadultered joy at her acquiescence, which he had waited for so long. "You won't regret it, darling," he murmured. "I'll see that you're happy."

  Oh, God, Zena thought, I have to tell him about Sasha, about the need for a divorce, about all the complications of my life. Not now, though, she considered wearily. Tomorrow I'll tell him, tomorrow ... or the next day.

  In the jubilation of his triumph the Earl of Glenagle was inclined to disregard his previous bloodthirsty urge to brutally kill. After tucking Zena into bed with the promise that he would stay with her until morning, Alistair instead called the police superintendent. Upon his arrival, the earl succinctly described the events that had transpired in a mild, prosaic fashion, editing the details that would prove awkward to Zena.

  There was a man in the hall closet as well as the one lying in the hallway, he said, and apparently the two guards outside had discreetly disappeared as the police arrived. The earl explained in well-bred, quiet accents that he wished to avoid scandal for the lady's sake and would press no charges if he could be assured the Arabs would be out of the country by morning.

  "All will be accomplished, my lord," the gravely courteous police officer had guaranteed.

  With good-tempered amiability and manners the earl thanked the diplomatic police superintendent and bid him a cordial good night.

  As Nice's police superintendent walked back down the stairs, he reflected pensively on the singular peculiarities and incongruities of the phlegmatic English. It was remarkable to contemplate that quiet, calm, civil earl conducting himself like the most perverse Marseilles cutthroat. That young Turkish sheikh would be lucky if he could talk at all for several months. Indeed, the Frenchman speculated pragmatically, the young scoundrel was fortunate to still be alive.

  Alex arrived in Nice two days later. It was the middle of September. Although he hadn't been there in three years, his villa was fully staffed and in readiness. Only his valet accompanied him from St. Petersburg.

  Detectives were hired immediately to determine whether Zena was still in the city. During the following days as the search was in progress, Alex was feted by society. A rich, young bachelor was always welcome at any social event and a handsome, rich, young bachelor could discard more invitations than he could accept. Prince Alexander Kuzan's picture was splashed across the society pages of the local paper, his elegant figure shown at a ball, a garden party, at the races, and on his yacht.

  Zena unfortunately read the paper and saw those photos. Her husband seemed to be amusing himself very well without her. She had always been aware of that, though. Tears spilled over onto her cheeks and traced silent paths downward. Why, oh, why did she have to be reminded of that fact just at a time when she had regained some control over her feelings and her future.

  Sasha was as startlingly handsome as ever, his easy air of assurance and patrician cast of countenance evident in every photo: standing bronzed and poised in white flannels at the rail of his yacht; entering the enclosure at the races in Cagnes-sur-Mer; or leaning casually against a veranda support at some afternoon party. Staying home in staid seclusion while he sought Zena had never occurred to Alex. He was born and bred to participate in these society amusements; and he partook of them through force of habit and as an alternative to drinking alone.

  Four days later the detectives discovered Zena's pension and reported to Alex. He left immediately to see her. His carriage drove him to the area of town in which Zena's lodgings were located. As they passed by the little park near Zena's apartment, Alex caught a glimpse of his wife.

  Ordering the driver to stop, he descended from the vehicle and paused briefly.

  Bobby was playing with a ball on the grass near Zena. She was seated on a bench under the shade of a lime tree, apparently weeping. A man sat intimately near her, and as her shoulders shook with sobs, the man placed his arm around Zena and drew her head onto his chest.

  His wife! And in the arms of another man! Alex's temper flared dangerously. God damn it! Some other man fondling his wife! A white heat of rage ignited within seconds as his proprietory impulses surged.

  I'll kill him! I'll kill him! The incendiary malediction coursed through his raging brain.

  With a conscious effort he regained control of his rationality. Consider now, he reflected reasonably, you've been far from virtuous these past few months trying to forget Zena. It's a two-way street; Zena had need of companionship, too. You couldn't very well expect her to be chaste while you were sampling every erotic pleasure in St. Petersburg.

  This reasonable, logical recapitulation of the common-sense motives influencing both his and Zena's behavior lasted precisely four seconds. Sensitive, moderate judiciousness had always eluded him. Touch my wife, will he?

  I'll kill him! the prince repeated violently. He was smiling now, and his eyes blazed. In a white-hot fury Alex started across the busy street, oblivious to the flurry of vehicles on the congested thoroughfare. Alex dodged the first phaeton successfully and blindly avoided the second vehicle with the luck reserved for small children and angels, but even the providential good fortune of inveterate gamblers is subject to occasional reverses. The street was much too crowded with dashing conveyances, while his ferocity obscured any cauti
on he might have had. The driver of a speeding curricle sawed back cruelly on his reins in an attempt to avoid the tall figure who had dashed out in front of his team. Despite the driver's urgent measures, his best efforts were futile. The horses veered sharply to the right, screaming wildly, convulsed by the pain as the bits tore into their tender mouths. But the desperate action was a fraction too late as the left forward wheel of the curricle crashed into the chest of the sprinting man.

  All was tumultuous confusion as vehicles of every description screeched to a halt in a muddled hodgepodge of turbulent pandemonium: drivers cursing, animals squealing, panic-stricken pedestrians surging out into the center of the street to gawk at the victim who was lying unconscious. Several small pools of blood began to form under this head and legs.

  Zena jumped up at the uproar and called warning to Bobby before he rushed off to view the spectacle.

  "Let me go and see what happened, Zena," Alistair cautioned. "In your condition it isn't wise to subject yourself to calamitous experiences."

  He returned shortly. "It seems some fellow was struck down by a carriage. Quite gruesome, my dear, not a sight for you to be exposed to. Blood everywhere and the chap is unconscious. I'll take you and Bobby back home." Gently placing Zena's arms through his, they walked slowly back to her apartment. When they arrived, Zena made her excuses.

  "If you don't mind, Alistair, I think I'm going to lie down and rest this afternoon. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Very well, dear," he acceded gently. "Tomorrow."

  3

  Since Alex's pictures had appeared in the paper, all the careful defenses that Zena had conscientiously constructed had come tumbling down. Four days of seeing Sasha as society's darling, four days of knowing he was near enough to see had quite effectively demolished those judiciously built bastions. They had not seen each other for more than two months, and she had been losing hold of the memories of him. Now all she wanted to do was lay her head on the bronzed skin of his chest, feel the beating of his heart and the lazy caress of his hand over her hair, feel his mouth on hers. The torment had returned full force.

  She cried forlornly again for her lost love and wondered how she could ever have considered marrying Alistair no matter how gracious and kindly. After putting Bobby to sleep that night, she sat morosely near the fire and felt an uncontrollable, unforgivable moment of terror. She wondered how she was going to face the future, how she was even going to be able to go through childbirth alone. What had seemed like a rational solution six days ago— marrying Alistair—now seemed the most impossible action in the world. Do you pretend he's Sasha when you lie in his arms? Do you have Sasha's child call him Papa? Do you think of the future stretching ahead twenty years from now and see yourself still content as the Countess of Glenagle.

  Oh, why, she cried, had Sasha come back into her life to

  uproot her dearly purchased serenity, to upset the fragile structure of her placid friendship with Alistair? How was it possible he could still hurt her so?

  What was she going to do? In three weeks she was going to have a child; she would need money eventually. She could return to her grandfather, but she didn't want to. She could petition Sasha for money, but the thought was reprehensible under the circumstances. He hadn't even bothered acknowledging her note when she had poured out her love for him. Her absence hadn't affected him at all but to allow him the freedom he had always craved. No matter how she turned the problem around, no better solution appeared. Alistair was the only reasonable option.

  Zena stayed in the next morning, burrowing under the covers, unable to face the melancholy of her thoughts, unable to face her usual visit with Alistair at the park. The loss she thought she had begun to overcome was raw and bleeding again. Bobby crawled up onto the bed and spent the morning playing with his toy soldiers while Zena slipped inside her grief and pushed away the world. She would not permit herself to think. The softness and warmth of the comforting bed would saturate her and soothe the cold, sick ache in her heart. When she was strengthened, she'd face it all and decide what would be best for her to do.

  Alistair waited patiently on the park bench, passing the time reading the morning paper. He wasn't surprised Zena hadn't arrived. She had appeared more distraught than usual yesterday. The past few days he had noted an increased agitation, a vacillating gloom that he concluded was the result of her advanced pregnancy. It was only to be expected that a young female alone in the world should experience tremors of trepidation and anxiety as her time drew near, and the harrowing experience with the Turk had taken its toll. Alistair decided he'd drop by to visit this afternoon if she didn't come to the park. He leisurely finished reading the paper, the local news headlined by the accident that had occurred across the street yesterday. Apparently the victim of the crash was some Russian prince. The report stated the prince had regained consciousness and was resting at his villa on the sea. Those Russians were always of a volatile, wild character. Imagine, attempting to cross such a busy street in the middle of the thoroughfare.

  Rising from his idle perusal of the news, the Earl of Glenagle casually pitched the paper into the waste receptacle and continued on his way home. I wonder if Zena knows this Russian, the earl mused vaguely, then cast the thought aside. Impossible! She was quite different from the general run of headstrong, hard-gambling, party-going Russian aristocrats who dwelt in Nice. She was really very subdued. He wondered if her mother could have been European. He must ask her sometime.

  The earl delivered a gorgeous bouquet of white roses that afternoon when he visited Zena. She thanked him gratefully and explained she hadn't felt well enough that day to venture outside.

  "Do you think you should have a doctor call?" the earl asked anxiously, concerned with the new pallor of Zena's complexion.

  Zena demurred tactfully, unable to account for the actual reason.

  After Zena had made tea, the earl chatted congenially about the society events he had read of in the paper. Seeing that society news was apparently not brightening her spirits, he thought perhaps she might enjoy hearing about one of her fellow countrymen.

  "By the way," he said, holding his cup out to be refilled, "the chap in the accident yesterday was a Russian too. Wonder if you might have heard of him. Fellow by the name of Kuzan, a prince, I believe."

  The blue and white faience teapot dropped from Zena's grip, crashing into the plate of teacakes, spilling sweet, brown liquid across the table. Zena turned a deadly white and crumpled to the floor.

  Impeded by the table between them, Alistair was unable to break her fall. Lunging from his chair, he knelt fearfully by the still, pale form, patting her hand ineffectually for a moment before running downstairs and demanding the concierge send for a doctor.

  Rushing back to the apartment, he gently lifted Zena onto her bed. She was unbelievably frail despite the added weight of the baby, much too delicate, it seemed, to be able to sustain the burden of another life. Pressing a damp towel on her forehead, he saw her eyes flutter. Wiping her cheeks with the cool cloth, he was relieved to look into the dark blue eyes so familiar to him.

  "How are you, dear? I've sent for a doctor. You should have had one immediately this morning. Don't talk, just rest. He'll be here soon."

  "Is Sasha alive?" she whispered.

  "Who?" Alistair inquired bewildered.

  "The prince—is he alive?" she repeated softly.

  "Oh, the accident. That prince. Yes, he's alive, broken bones, that's all."

  Zena closed her eyes in relief.

  The earl was too polite to demand an explanation of such an odd question, although curiosity consumed him. After the doctor left, Alistair insisted Zena remain in bed.

  "Very well, Alistair, but I'm feeling quite well again, really. You needn't be concerned."

  After a half hour of persistent placating, she finally persuaded him to leave.

  Her spirits were tumultuously happy. The shock of thinking Sasha dead had convinced her that her love for him was as
strong as ever. She smiled sadly to herself while she reflected what a foolish thing pride was, and all the other shams like self-pity, hatred, vengeance, which had almost robbed life of the only thing she really wanted. What nonsense was pride! She wanted to see Sasha and be with him. She wanted at least another chance to talk to him again. If he didn't want her, then she would decide what she'd do with her life. But she was a silly fool to sit here and mope without trying even once to win Sasha back.

  Disregarding Alistair's admonitions, Zena threw back the covers and quickly dressed in a cerulean blue dress, one of Sasha's favorite frocks. He had teased her that she looked like a budding cornflower in it. It was soft silk, fluttering ruffles, and ribbons.

  Calling for a carriage, she and Bobby set out. Apprehension and qualms of misgiving stirred within her. You're half Daghestani, she bolstered her failing courage, and they fear no one. All he could do was send her away, and she was already living apart from him.

  An immaculately raked carriage drive curved up to a refined Moorish palace situated superbly on the crest of a rocky cliff. The sun was setting low over the Mediterranean, casting mauve and golden rays over the azure sea.

  Descending from the carriage, she nervously commanded it to wait. Despite her unease, she would not give way to the weakness that threatened to overwhelm her. She kept her mind steadily fixed on the object she had in view—to see Sasha one more time. Taking Bobby's hand in hers, Zena walked up to the brass-studded wooden door and struck the knocker. She was admitted to the foyer, where a forbidding butler looked down at her from a great height and said haughtily, "Yes, madame?"

  "I'd like to see Sasha . . . er . . . Prince Alexander."