When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  I was attracted to him, strongly attracted. I couldn’t deny that. It was, I knew, a purely physical attraction that had been there from the very beginning—first stirring that evening we had dined in the gold and yellow room—and it had steadily grown ever since. Sensibly, I had ignored it, being quite cool and reasonable … and then he had kissed me and I had known the full strength of this attraction and the full strength of my need for solace, for reassurance, for a remedy to counteract Jeremy Bond’s betrayal and all that it had done. Ready at last to take the powder, to throw all caution to the winds and savor anew the sweet splendor his fierce kisses had stirred inside me, I had drawn back, horrified by his cruelty, and then that damnable wall had come between us.

  It’s just as well, a cool inner voice told me. You were on the verge of making a very bad mistake, and you’re well out of it. Attracted to him you may be, but any relationship with Gregory Orlov could only lead to complications you’re not prepared to deal with. In a short time now you’ll be in St. Petersburg and three months later you will be on your way back to America and all this will become a distant memory. Use your head, Marietta. Leave things as they are. I gripped the reins in my gloved hands, listening to that sensible voice, knowing it spoke without emotion and with wisdom I must heed.

  A commotion ahead pulled me out of myself and brought me back to the reality of the moment: the powerful horse beneath me, the cold air numbing my cheeks, the immense white snowbanks and ice-encrusted trees on either side of the wide, level road. Orlov had raised his arm overhead, signaling the party to halt. The cossacks had unsheathed their weapons. Something was obstructing the road ahead, something large and gray and shapeless, a kind of barricade, it seemed. I rode foward slowly, foolishly, too curious for caution, and as I drew nearer I saw that it was a large sleigh overturned in the middle of the road, blankets, bags and mothy-looking furs scattered around it. The horses that had pulled it were nowhere to be seen.

  Orlov saw me approaching. His face was thunderous.

  “Get back!” he ordered. “Have you lost your mind? It might be an ambush!”

  I halted Natasha, but I didn’t retreat. Orlov and seven cossacks slowly approached the sleigh, weapons at the ready. There was a groaning noise. A black-gloved hand suddenly appeared on the top side of the sleigh and then a head wearing a thick black wool hat pulled down low over ears and brow. The hat had a frivolous black woolen ball atop it, and the face beneath was lean, attractive and unquestionably English. A pair of fine blue-gray eyes watched the menacing approach with considerable surprise.

  “I say, chaps! Easy on!”

  The words, in English, had no effect whatsoever on Orlov and his men. They continued toward the sleigh. Its former occupant shrugged and raised his hands in the air to show that he was unarmed. A half-amused, half-dismayed smile curled on a wide mouth with full lower lip. He moved out from behind the sleigh, hands still raised, not at all frightened. There was something jaunty, almost playful in his manner, an undeniable cockiness in the tilt of his head, the curve of that mouth.

  “My Russian is rather limited,” he said in that language, “but I assure you I shan’t attack. Odds are hardly in my favor, are they? Are you chaps always so grim?”

  “He’s English!” I called. “Put down your weapons.”

  The men ignored me. Silent, sober, they advanced, completely surrounding the sleigh. The Englishman shrugged, lowered his hands and thrust them into the pockets of his heavy black wool coat. Belted at the waist, it was a fine coat, exquisitely cut by the best English tailor, but it was a trifle shabby. His black leather cavalry boots were deplorably skuffed, and the dark gray English cord breeches that clung tightly to his very long legs were just short of threadbare. A new, very expensive, mustard yellow wool scarf was wrapped snugly around his neck and tucked between the wide lapels of the black coat.

  “If you’re going to shoot me, shoot,” he said chattily. “I’ve had an absolutely wretched day and that would be a fitting climax.”

  “You are English?” Orlov asked gruffly.

  “I’ve got the papers to prove it, but, alas, they’re in St. Petersburg. Didn’t figure I’d need ’em out here.”

  “What are you doing here?” Orlov demanded.

  “Freezing,” the man confided. “I left the village of Riganoye bright and early this morning—crack of dawn, actually, wanted to get a good start. I started out with two sturdy but rather lackluster gray stallions pulling my sleigh, incidentally. Seem to have lost ’em.”

  His Russian, though serviceable, was spoken with a pronounced English accent, and the heavy, cumbersome language was hardly suited to his chatty manner of speech. Orlov frowned, comprehending only half of what the fellow said.

  “He is, I think, harmless,” he told his men. “We do not kill him.”

  “Relieved to hear that,” the man quipped.

  He was quite tall, a good three inches over six feet, and extremely lean, not a spare ounce of flesh on that loose, wiry frame. He couldn’t be much over twenty-three or twenty-four, I thought, though some Englishmen kept that youthful aura well into their thirties.

  “What is it you call yourself?” Orlov inquired.

  “I call myself all sorts of things, depending on the circumstances. My official appellation is Lloyd, Bryan Lloyd, with a y. My mother thought an i would be altogether too common.”

  Orlov shook his head, perplexed. “This man, he does not make sense. I do not follow what he says.”

  “Think you could give me something fiery to drink, preferably your famous vodka? Seems I’ve been sprawled unconscious in the snow for quite a long time, three or four hours at least. If it hadn’t been for this hat I’m wearing, the crack I got over my head would probably ’ve bashed my skull in.”

  “Someone cracks you over the head?”

  “I was clicking along, minding my own business, humming a jaunty tune if memory serves, when these three frightful-looking ruffians leaped out from behind that snowbank over there. Two of ’em seized the horses. The third gave a mighty yell and pounced on me waving a heavy wooden board. Happened so suddenly I didn’t have time to defend myself—and I’m pretty good at that. The board smashed across my head and everything went black and the next thing I knew I was hearing bells—yours.”

  “When does this happen?”

  “Couldn’t ’ve been much later than nine, nine-thirty. I see they left my bags. Guess they figured there wasn’t anything worth stealing besides the horses. They didn’t get a bargain there, I assure you.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Sturdy, lackluster, gray, ready to be put out to pasture, both of ’em. My father wouldn’t let me use any of the good horses. Said if I was going to be traipsing about the Russian countryside visiting isolated villages no one has ever heard of I bloody well wasn’t going to take his thoroughbreds.”

  “The men,” Orlov said patiently. “What do they look like?”

  “Just got a quick glimpse of ’em,” Bryan Lloyd replied. “They were big brutes, shabbily dressed, wooden sabots, thin coats. Looked half-starved to me. Peasants. Obviously on the run. Surprised they didn’t steal my coat,” he added. “Mighty glad they didn’t.”

  Orlov nodded portentously, as though his worst fears had been confirmed, and then he turned and ordered a general halt for lunch. The tall Englishman perked up considerably at the word lunch. Orlov and his men dismounted and went to inspect the sleigh, which, it seemed, was damaged beyond repair. The peasants had apparently pushed it over before running off with the horses.

  “Think you might give me a ride to St. Petersburg?” Lloyd asked as the men began to haul the damaged sleigh off the road.

  “We do this, yes,” Orlov told him. “You are friend, not foe.”

  I had dismounted now and handed Natasha’s reins to one of the servants. Rubbing gloved fingers over my numb cheeks, adjusting my sable hood, I moved purposefully over to Orlov and the Englishman. One of the sleigh’s runners was shattered, I
noticed, and part of the bottom had been bent. Bryan Lloyd shook his head mournfully as it was pulled over a snowbank. Two grim servants began to gather up his bags, the blanket and mothy-looking furs.

  “Take the bags to our troika,” I said crisply. “Do whatever you wish with the furs and blankets.”

  “I say!” Lloyd protested. “I’ve grown very attached to those blankets!”

  “They’re falling apart,” I said in English. “So are the furs.”

  “The mother tongue!” he exclaimed. “Can’t tell you how good it is to hear it. About the blankets—I travel about on my own, you see. It wouldn’t do for me to drive a splashy rig. Too much temptation for bandits. Reason I wear these old clothes. They take me for a poor worker and move on to more promising candidates.”

  “Your masquerade didn’t do you much good this morning,” I observed.

  “A chap’s luck is bound to run out sometime or other. The men were obviously desperate. You’re English, aren’t you? What in the world are you doing with this party?”

  “It’s a long story,” I replied. “You look pale. You probably have a bad lump on top of your head. I feel sure you’re hungry. I’ll take care of him,” I told Orlov, who had been scrutinizing us both intently, straining to understand what we said. “There’s plenty of room in our troika.”

  “Is so,” Orlov said, nodding. “Is your countryman. You find out why he is out here all alone. Me, I cannot make the head or the tails of anything he says.”

  I smiled to myself and, taking Bryan Lloyd by the arm, led him toward the troika I shared with Lucie. Though jaunty and putting on a good front, he was indeed pale, and his legs were a bit shaky as we walked. I feared he might have a slight concussion. He emitted a low whistle as he took in the splendor of our vehicles.

  “I assume the big chap on the black horse must be someone important,” he said.

  “Count Gregory Orlov,” I replied.

  Bryan Lloyd arched a brow. “Orlov? So he’s come back at last.”

  “You know of him?”

  “Everyone in Russia knows of the mighty Orlov. He’s almost a legendary figure. Never thought I’d actually meet him, particularly under circumstances like these. If I might be so bold to ask, what is your connection with the famous count?”

  “I’m his niece’s paid companion.”

  That dark, winged brow shot up again. “You? A paid companion? Thought they were dowdy, self-effacing old ladies in black, always fetching shawls and pouring tea. Never saw one in silks and sable before.”

  “You have now,” I said tartly.

  “Hold on,” he protested. “I meant no offense. It’s just that you happen to be the most gorgeous female I’ve ever laid eyes on. I find it hard to visualize you fetching shawls, pouring tea, being dowdy and self-effacing.”

  “I rarely am, Mr. Lloyd.”

  “I don’t even know your name. Would it be highly presumptuous of me to ask?”

  “I’m Marietta Danver,” I said, “and you are indeed highly presumptuous. Something of a scamp, I suspect.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’ve had a lot of experience with scamps,” I said dryly.

  Bryan Lloyd smiled. It was, of course, a perfectly dazzling smile, warm and engaging, bringing a responsive smile to my own lips. The youth had all the makings of a heartbreaker, and I suspected he had already broken quite a few despite his age. If he were ten years older I would have avoided him like the pox.

  “Here we are,” I said, opening the door of our troika.

  I helped him in. He was much weaker than he thought, shivering a little as he climbed inside and sank onto the cushioned seat opposite Lucie. He was even paler now, his brow moist with cold sweat. He had been going on sheer bravado all this time, and now he looked ready to pass out. I plumped a cushion behind him, spread a fur over his knees, poured a glass of brandy and told him to drink it. Lucie watched all this with cool, incurious eyes, undeniably haughty as she sat across from us. Bryan Lloyd hardly noticed her. He drank the brandy in greedy gulps, growing weaker by the minute.

  “How is your head?” I asked.

  “Hurts like hell, if you really want to know.”

  “Here, let me see.”

  I pulled off his black knit hat with its fluffy black ball. His hair was thick and silky and wavy, a very dark blond. I touched the top of his head. He yowled. There was a large bump, as I had suspected. I told him we were going to have to put ice on it. He made a grimace, looking pathetic and put-upon and extremely young now. I took ice from a silver bucket in one of the cabinets and wrapped it up in a silk scarf and placed it on his head.

  “It’s going to melt and drip all over me,” he complained.

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  “I say, do you think I might have another glass of that brandy? Finest I’ve ever drunk.”

  “You’ve had enough for the time being. After lunch, if you eat all your food, I might let you have a few more drops.”

  “Christ, you’d think I was still in the nursery!”

  “I suspect you haven’t been out of the nursery all that long, Mr. Lloyd. Just how old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine,” he lied.

  “Twenty-one,” I said.

  “Twenty-four,” he confessed, “but don’t let on.”

  He seemed to see Lucie for the first time then and gazed at her with considerable interest, the gray-blue eyes full of speculation. Lucie tilted her chin disdainfully and stared out the window, very much the imperious Russian noblewoman, although a bit too young to carry it off with any great aplomb. Bryan Lloyd cut a comical figure as he slouched back against the cushions, bundled in furs, the hastily improvised ice pack lopsided atop his head, but Lucie hadn’t failed to note the lean, handsome face with its fine chiseled nose and cheekbones, the cleft chin, the sensual curve of that full lower lip. I introduced them. Lucie nodded curtly. Bryan Lloyd grinned and said he was positively enchanted and then dropped right off to sleep. I suspected the brandy he had drunk so quickly had something to do with it.

  “Where did you find him?” Lucie inquired.

  “In the middle of the road. His sleigh had been turned over, his horses stolen. Didn’t you hear the commotion?”

  “I didn’t pay any attention. I just assumed we were stopping for lunch. What’s he doing in our troika?”

  “Someone had to look after him. As he’s my countryman, I took on the job. I fear I’m going to have my hands full.”

  “He looks like a great big baby,” Lucie observed acidly. “Look at those legs. They’re as long as a giraffe’s.”

  “Nicely shaped, though.”

  “A gawky English giraffe! Just how long are we going to have to share our troika with him? All the way to St. Petersburg?”

  “You don’t have to share it at all,” I said sweetly. “If it’s going to be an imposition, I’m sure your uncle can make other arrangements for him.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to put anyone else out,” she replied, a martyr now. “I guess I’ll just have to endure it.”

  I smiled. The minx didn’t fool me in the least. She was interested, all right, gawky English giraffe though he might be. The subject of our conversation slept soundly, his lips parted, snorting every now and then. The ice began to melt. He scowled and stirred in his sleep as an icy rivulet trickled down his temple. I removed the ice, replaced it with more, patted his temples and brow dry. He snorted, nestling his cheek against a cushion. Lucie gave an exasperated sigh and immersed herself in a book, or pretended to. Shortly thereafter our lunch arrived, a most lavish repast. Bryan Lloyd’s nostrils twitched. He sniffed. He opened one eye. Seeing the food, he sat bolt upright, wide awake.

  He had an enormous appetite, plowing into the golden brown roast chicken with relish, devouring a whole stack of potato pancakes, half a pot of caviar, an egg in aspic, several thick slices of tender pork roast as well, finishing things off with a flaky apple pastry sprinkled with cinnamon sugar
and a large cup of coffee. Coffee drunk, pastry crumbs brushed away, he handed me the empty cup, grinned and, a moment later, was fast asleep again. Lucie was absolutely appalled, had never been so appalled in all her life, and told me so in no uncertain terms. She had no idea how she was going to endure the company of this childish, ill-mannered English oaf for the next week and a half even if he did have hair like thick dark yellow silk and remarkable blue-gray eyes.

  “I imagine you’ll manage,” I said.

  “I’m only doing this for you, Marietta. I want you to understand that.”

  “I understand perfectly,” I told her.

  Bryan Lloyd slept soundly for the next three and a half hours as we moved on through the frozen countryside, runners gliding smoothly over the ice, bells jingling pleasantly. I changed the ice twice more, noting that the lump seemed to have gone down quite a bit. Beneath the thick yellow hair his scalp was pink and swollen, but I didn’t think he had sustained any real damage. Removing the ice at last, I smoothed his hair back and patted the icy moisture from his brow. He sighed heavily and emitted a little moan, nuzzling the silken cushion in blissful contentment. Lucie put down the volume of plays she had been thumbing through.

  “He’s going to be all right,” I remarked. “The swelling’s gone down now, and he’s not nearly as pale as he was. Look, there’s a faint pink flush on his cheeks.”

  “He’s certainly lean,” Lucie observed. “I’ve never cared for excessively lean men.”

  “He may be lean, but he’s very sturdy. Strong as an ox, I’d wager.”

  “I doubt it,” she sniffed.

  “Wanna wrestle?” he asked.

  He opened his eyes. Lucie and I gave him accusing looks. He grinned.

  “How long have you been awake?” I demanded.

  “Just a couple of minutes. Speaking of wrestling, I used to be quite good when I was at Oxford. Celebrated for my arm lock and my side head lock. Lethal, both of them. Once I got him in one of those locks, the other chap might as well have given up. Won every match, I did. Won a lot of pocket money on side wagers, too. Always bet on myself. I was class champion, by the by.”