Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  But she did, and desiring him beyond the serene lethargy of Stefan's motivations, she began undressing him.

  He smiled, a knowing understanding smile because he was familiar with her impatience, could recognize when her breathing altered, could feel the heat of her fingers on his skin. She unbuckled his belt with mild speed and slid it from its loops. The silver buttons on his breeches came loose next, and he stood then to pull off his boots and strip off the white leather breeches.

  "I like the train," she said, kneeling nude and graceful on the bed, her hand on his hip, her smile heated from within. "Don't you?"

  It was perfection: the isolation, the small and intimate pro­portions of the room; the starlit night sky visible through the windows; the racing speed, which seemed to place them some­how outside the boundaries of the world.

  "We're alone." He said the words so they were special be­yond their endearment, as though they meant, as well, that they were forever together.

  She threw her arms around him and hugged him close, be­cause she knew their time was precious and their immediate "forever" was only a few days long. His skin felt sleek be­neath her hands and cheek, his solid strength her anchor and security, his heart beat steady and strong under her ear. She felt for a moment too fortunate and happy, as if there were an ex­pendable limit to the felicity of her feelings and she were living on borrowed time. "Don't go," she whispered.

  He didn't reply and she felt guilty for saying the words, for asking him to do what he couldn't. He stroked her back in a slow soothing rhythm, his palms warm, the pressure of his hands gentle, his heartbeat unaltered. "I won't," he finally said.

  She looked up quickly.

  "We have today and tomorrow." He was telling her they wouldn't think of menacing prospects now. Tonight she could ask and he would promise that their love and their future would be inviolable for… two days.

  It was more than some people ever had. It was more than she'd thought possible even a week ago. She smiled up at him, her golden eyes full of love. "I'm glad you're not going."

  "So am I," he said, the fiction theirs, this wedding night a miracle achieved against unprosperous odds, their love a triumph of two spirits validating the power of love.

  He needed reminding when the time came later that she wasn't fragile as glass, that she was healthy and young and much too aroused to wish to be treated with such restrained gentleness…although "tame courtesy" were the actual words she used.

  "The baby," he said, reminded by Nikki at the station and by his own thoughts, the prospect of fatherhood more and more prominent with his future so insecure. He could no longer disregard or waive the unalterable change in his thinking, no more than he could overlook Lisaveta's pregnancy, and his unease with the precise nuance of making love was natural. He had, to date, not acquired any familiarity with enceinte women.

  "I'm fine," Lisaveta softly assured him.

  "You're sure."

  "I'll be finer soon," she replied in a seductive teasing whis­per, "if you remember everything I've taught you in the past."

  He laughed. "My apologies, darling, for being too well be­haved."

  "I think," his newly married wife said, her eyebrows raised in mild reproof, "we've talked enough."

  He was braced above her on his elbows, her legs wrapped around his, the heat from her eyes almost tactile, his own glance only fractionally cooler. "That almost sounds like an order," he murmured, his mouth curved in a smile.

  "Did I word that improperly?" Lisaveta murmured back. "I meant it to be…" She paused, lifting her hips slightly and ro­tated them in exquisite slow motion so he felt it in the soles of his feet and the tips of his toes, in his fingers, down his spine and with sensational intoxication in his heated brain. "An unequivocal order," she finished.

  He was smiling when he lowered his head to kiss her, and he made certain no one could fault him for excessive deference, although excessiveness in other areas found unqualified favor.

  The bed was a shambles soon and the room too hot in short order. Stefan opened the window because the small porcelain stove near the door wouldn't cool down for hours.

  It was raining out, a fine misting rain that dampened his hair and made it curl when he stayed in the windswept air for long moments to cool himself. And when he fell back on the bed and pulled Lisaveta in his arms he smelled of pine forests and freshness.

  He seemed a young boy suddenly, removed from the pomp of his princely travel and retinue, and she wished with the il­logical fantasy of lovers that she'd known him when he was young.

  "I love you so much my heart aches," she whispered as he kissed her cheek and nose and chin, small droplets of water falling from his hair.

  "No, no, no," he resolutely objected, his voice rich with happiness. "Love me so much your heart spills over with joy…love me, sweetling, with laughter and pleasure…" He cupped her face between his warm palms, his smile infectious, boyish. "Love me with jubilation and rejoicing because that's how I love you and," he added very, very softly, "you're hav­ing my baby." He said the last word with a hushed reverence, feeling at that moment so deep in love the boundaries of defi­nition would have to be pushed beyond the star line.

  His eyes as she gazed up at him were dark passion, his words irresistible, and her answering smile was artless and unre­servedly loving. "I'm having your baby." Her quiet declara­tion had the power to erase long years of sadness and bring full circle a kind of happiness he'd forgotten existed. Her small hands covered his where they lay on her cheeks and she said, as a young schoolgirl might recite a statement of fact, "I love you, Stefan Bariatinsky." And then she grinned like that same young schoolgirl might. "Now what are you going to do about it?"

  He laughed, and then his dark glance turned seductive. "I suppose," he murmured, his deep voice husky with sugges­tion, "I'll have to make you happy."

  And he did. Offering her everything, his heart, his soul, his exhilaration, his unconditional love.

  She welcomed him on that rain-cooled night with the unre­strained spirit he adored. They made love with extravagant generosity, indulgent to each other first before they were self-indulgent, so in love each melting kiss seemed sweetly new, each peaking splendor and rushing climax rare and precious.

  As morning came, they fell asleep in each other's arms, wishing in those illusory, unsubstantial moments before sleep falls that they weren't on a princely railcar speeding south to a killing field.

  They slept late into the morning and woke leisurely when the sun was already high in the sky.

  Almost half the day gone, Stefan unconsciously thought, as though some internal clock were ticking off the restricted time. And he felt for a short sinking moment as if these few hours were all he was going to be allowed. Determinedly shaking away his brief melancholy, he leaned over and kissed Lisaveta good-morning, and when her eyes slowly opened, he said with a smile and the impatience of a child, or perhaps a prince, "We have to eat."

  Familiar with his appetite, Lisaveta said in sleepy, sardonic query, "How did you last so long?"

  "Inherent politeness," he teased.

  "And you've only been awake thirty seconds."

  "That, too." His grin was engaging, although with the dark stubble shading his jaw he had the look of a brigand.

  "And I'd better shave," he added, as though he could read her thoughts, his fingers trailing over the contour of his face, "as soon as we eat."

  Lisaveta smiled. "You have no patience."

  "Should I have?" He asked the question with idle casual-ness as he reached for the bellpull.

  Thinking for a moment of Stefan's particular style of living, Lisaveta said, still smiling, "Perhaps it's too late for you."

  "Would you like breakfast or lunch, darling, this time of day?" he inquired, knowing it was years too late for him to learn patience.

  Rolling over on her back and stretching, Lisaveta teasingly asked, "Are all you Orbelianis the same?"

  "No, of course not," Stefan rep
lied, ignoring the point of her question. "Some are shorter—the women, you under­stand—and some are older or younger—"

  She smacked him with the flat of her hand on his stomach and his fingers closed around her wrist before she could strike him again. "Save that energy for later, darling," he said very low, his dark eyes amused. "You're going to need it."

  Breakfast was sumptuous, served in bed, and as promised, their renewed energy was put to good use. The afternoon sped by, as did the evening, in amorous pursuits, their conversation lighthearted and without substance or topicality.

  Neither spoke of the future or the war, although the assault on Kars loomed specterlike in both their thoughts, the reality only days away. The terrifying possibility Stefan might die was too awful for Lisaveta to allow herself to think about, but her sleep that night was restless. Stefan lay awake after she finally dozed off, holding her in his arms, his mind on the complexity of the attack. Not unusual, he reminded himself; he always detailed the maneuvers of his troops on an internal battlefield, considering alternative options in endless possibilities. But this time he experienced an unfamiliar twinge of anxiety, no more than an infrequent dragging beat of disquietude, but that break in his concentration kept him awake because it was new.

  They reached Vladikavkaz a day and a half later at four in the morning, ten hours eliminated from the normal run, the en­gine firebox red-hot and glowing like a live coal. Even while the train was still rolling to a stop, a harsh banging erupted on the railcar door. Stefan, who had been dressed since midnight, swiftly opened the door, cast one glance over the troop of horsemen prancing restlessly beyond the station platform and knew he faced serious problems.

  "Hussein Pasha is only three days from Kars!" the young lieutenant cried. His salute was perfunctory, and forgetting in his apprehension that he was addressing a corps commander, he added, "You must come immediately!"

  Stefan almost smiled at the lieutenant's youthful agitation, and had his announcement been less ominous, he might have. How the hell had Hussein Pasha done it? was his next incred­ulous thought. The land he'd crossed was barren of water or fodder for his horses. A march at that speed and under those conditions must have been lethal to half the Turkish men and mounts. Stefan, as familiar with that country as he was with his own palace grounds, knew just how great that suffering would have been. But regardless of the possible state of Hussein Pasha's army, Stefan's immediate concern was beating him to Kars.

  "Give me a minute," he said to the lieutenant, "and bring up my horse."

  Standing outside the bedroom door a moment later, he de­bated whether to wake Lisaveta; she'd slept poorly and had only fallen into a peaceful slumber near morning. He felt guilty waking her, but he found he couldn't leave without holding her one last time, without, he thought, offering what might be a final goodbye to her and his child.

  Her cheek was rosy warm to his lips and she only stirred at his caress, but when he sat on the bed, her eyes slowly opened and she smiled before she remembered.

  "I have to go," he said softly. "Hussein Pasha is three days from Kars."

  "Oh, dear," she whispered, her quiet exclamation full of fear, her gaze quickly taking in his uniform and readiness.

  "I've only a minute… they're bringing up my mount. Masha will take care of you. An escort will see you to Tiflis. I love you, dushka, with all my heart…and the child, too," he finished in a husky whisper.

  She tried to steady her voice before she spoke, knowing he had to leave, knowing the Empire relied on his cavalry corps to help win Kars, knowing her wishes were incidental to the tide of events sweeping over them. "Go with God, Stepka," she said, reaching for him, her voice trembling, her tears spilling over.

  He crushed her in his arms, his own eyes wet with unshed tears. "You're my life, dushka," he whispered into the soft­ness of her hair. "Take care of our child—" he steadied his voice with effort "—and don't ever forget what we had to­gether…"

  His words frightened her, as if he wouldn't be with her to raise their child, as if he wouldn't be coming back to her. "Be careful," she cried, clinging to him, wanting to hold him for­ever, wanting to know he was safe in her arms.

  "I never take chances," he lied. And when she looked up at his ambiguous phrasing, tears streaming down her face, he added, "I promise, darling, to be careful." His kiss was gentle, honey sweet.

  Her mouth tasted of tears and he wished for a moment life weren't so fragile. But the outcome of his race south hung in the balance and with it, perhaps, the future of Kars…and his own future. As a soldier he'd always accepted the uncertainty of life; as a risk taker, he understood it better than most. But as a hus­band now and a father-to-be, suddenly he felt exposed and un­guarded, the delicate balance between victory and death a precarious distinction he'd never considered before. He'd never questioned the duration of his golden halo of protection.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

  "I'll be right there," he said. "I have to go," he added in a quiet voice, his simple words intense with feeling. Gently un­clasping Lisaveta's arms, he pulled away, gazed at her for a moment more and without speaking stood. The room smelled of her fragrance, and while his men waited he found himself regarding her a few seconds more, as if he were memorizing her image against an uncertain future.

  Lisaveta's golden eyes were still soft with sleep, her cheeks flushed a delicate rose, and her lips where he'd just kissed her were still slightly parted, lush like perfect ripe fruit. She was nude beneath the covers, her smooth shoulders and arms and the rise of one breast framed by the blue silk coverlet. She was perfect beauty, she was his adored wife, the mother of his un­born child, and he had to leave her.

  How hard it was this time to return to the campaigns that had been until then his entire life. How hard it was to leave her. He shut his eyes briefly and drew in a slow fortifying breath. "I love you," he said in almost a whisper, and then turning, he strode from the room.

  Moments later he was mounted, his revolver belted at his waist, his Kurdish knives tucked into the wide leather belt, handy to his reach. He'd checked the ammunition in his rifle in an automatic reflexive action before slinging it across his back. After speaking a few quiet words to Cleo, he took the black burkah offered him and threw it over his shoulders against the predawn chill. Wheeling his horse, he glanced at his mounted escort arrayed in faultless formation behind him.

  "Ready, Excellency," the lieutenant replied to Stefan's si­lent inquiry.

  He took one last look back at the lighted window in his rail­way car, his features expressionless, then bending forward slightly, whispered to Cleo. Her ears twitched as if in answer and she took two prancing steps. The road to Tiflis was famil­iar to her, and as Stefan straightened in his saddle, she plunged forward.

  Lisaveta cried while Stefan's troop galloped down the tree-shaded boulevards of Vladikavkaz and clattered over the Terek bridge; she cried as they rode across the valley plain and began climbing toward the Tomar pass. She cried great gulping sobs as the horses dug in to ascend the sharp incline, their hooves throwing up the rough black gravel of the area. With Stefan riding off to war she might never see him again. He could be dead in a few days, and… if they had a child… Fresh tears of fear and self-pity poured down her cheeks.

  But as the sun came up over Guz Damur, falling alike on Stefan's mounted company and his railcar at Vladikavkaz, Lisaveta shakily wiped her tears away, trying at the same time to steady her breathing. Sitting up, she pushed the covers aside. She realized she could cry a thousand years if she wished but it wouldn't bring Stefan back or make him safe. Militza was waiting for her in Tiflis; Stefan wanted her to continue south to his home and stay there with his aunt until the war was over. Although she would have preferred a site closer to Kars, when she'd tried to persuade him the previous night he'd been ada­mantly opposed. The front could dramatically change, he'd said. Cavalry flanking movements often swung deep and wide, and he didn't want her in jeopardy of ca
pture by the Turks or Bazhis. Aleksandropol was too close to the border, offering little security should the Russians be pushed back. And after her capture last summer, her cavalier attitude about the ease with which one could travel through a war zone had been for­ever altered. Stefan was right of course, Tiflis was safer, but knowing that didn't make her any less miserable.

  First she had to dress. Walking over to the built-in closets opposite the bed, Lisaveta selected a beige serge traveling gown trimmed in black silk braid, one of her numerous trousseau garments. She washed next in the small but luxuriously ap­pointed bathroom adjoining Stefan's bedroom and found her­self somewhat cheered by the hand-painted tiles decorating the walls. The glazed tile was a misty blue-green, reminding one of the color of the sea, and at eye level was adorned with a decor­ative border of frolicking sea creatures. Stefan had names for most of them and she smiled, remembering his facetious intro­ductions of sea life. She felt better when she smiled, and as she dressed her melancholy lifted from the gloominess she'd wal­lowed in an hour ago. Stefan had always led a charmed life; he was a competent soldier, a brilliant soldier. She'd dwell in­stead on the positive. So saying, she took one last look in the mirror and opened the door into the small corridor.

  When she walked into the parlor a dozen steps later, three officers and Stefan's valet, Ellico, were standing at attention.

  She instantly received four very correct bows as though she were a person of consequence, a natural result, she realized, of being married to the Tsar's favorite commander, a sudden transfor­mation from her unpretentious past. How long had they been standing there at attention? she wondered with a nervous start. What if she'd decided to wander in in her chemise—or less. Their entire journey had been devoid of servants save for the times food was left on trays, and she hadn't realized the ab­sence of servants was on Stefan's orders. They were present, of course, for Stefan traveled en prince as a matter of course; they had simply been out of sight.