When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Not since we saw him down in the courtyard. Maybe he’s in his room, too. I stepped outside and spoke to Mitya before I came up to your room. He told me there are three other guards posted outside. One of them is already dead drunk and sprawling on the steps of the barracks. The other two are wandering around with rifles at the ready, looking for peasants.”

  “So we just have two guards to worry about—and Vladimir.”

  Reaching up under my petticoats, I tied the sash securely around my waist. The bag of coins sewn to it rested heavily against my left thigh. I picked up the soft gray gloves and began to pull them on. Grushenka was very upset, casting apprehensive looks toward the window.

  “Do—did you hear something?” she whispered.

  “Just the log crackling in the fireplace.”

  “It—it sounded like—like shouting. In the distance.”

  I stretched my fingers and smoothed the gloves up over my wrists. “You’re imagining things, Grushenka.”

  “I’m just so—so frightened. I’ve had this peculiar feeling all day—the village priest calls it the second sight. I’m very sensitive, and I feel things. Before something happens I seem to—to know. The day Dmitri was gored to death by a bull I—I kept seeing a field and seeing blood and—”

  She cut herself short, her cheeks pale, her gray eyes enormous and full of apprehension. Illiterate, raised in a land of dark superstitions and even darker religious mysticism practiced by charlatan priests who thrived on the ignorance of their flock, it was not surprising that a high-strung girl should be a prey to such feelings, genuine or not. I took her hands and squeezed them.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I told her.

  “I know. I’m just—”

  “You’re just nervous. So am I.”

  “I’ll feel much better when we—when we get out of this house.”

  “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

  Picking up the dark silver-gray mink cloak, I draped it over my shoulders and fastened it at my throat, and then, reaching under the pillow, I pulled out the pistol. Grushenka stared at it with wide eyes, as though it were some animate thing that might bite or snap. Holding it at my side, half-hidden by the folds of my skirt, I moved over to the bedroom door and opened it. The candles had burned down to half their length, ridged with streaks of melted wax. Wavering yellow-orange light leaped and licked at the walls, the darkness between all the gloomier. No one was in sight.

  “You have to leave all your lovely clothes,” Grushenka said, glancing at the wardrobe.

  “Clothes can be replaced,” I replied. “Come.”

  Grushenka followed me into the hall, keeping behind me as we crept silently toward the stairwell. My own nerves were taut again, my heart beating rapidly. I fully expected Vladimir to step out of a shadowy doorway and block our way. We would use the back stairs, of course. It would be madness to use the main staircase … I paused. Damn! The rifle. I had forgotten it. I would have to go down to the library and collect the rifle and ammunition and powder horn. Why hadn’t I had the sense to sneak them to the back hall earlier, when I was wandering through the empty house?

  “What—what is it?” Grushenka whispered.

  “I have to go down to the library,” I said.

  “But—”

  “The rifle. The powder horn. The ammunition.”

  “I—I was so nervous I forgot about that.”

  “So did I. You go on down the back stairs, Grushenka. I’ll meet you and Mitya in a very few minutes.”

  “I’ll go with you. You’ll need someone to help carry—”

  “This cloak has large inside pockets. I won’t have any trouble. We’re wasting time, Grushenka. Go on. Wait for me outside the kitchen door.”

  The girl hesitated, extremely worried, and then she scurried silently down the hall and turned in the direction of the back stairs. I hesitated for a moment, too, standing at the top of the stairs, not at all relishing crossing that great expanse of hall downstairs with all the candles burning, being so exposed and vulnerable. It couldn’t be helped. I took a deep breath, then started down. The third step from the top creaked loudly. It sounded like a gunshot in the stillness. I flattened myself against the wall, thankful the stairwell itself was shrouded in shadow. I waited. Nothing happened. I took another deep breath and moved on down to the landing.

  The great, gloomy hall was bathed in murky yellow-orange light as candles spluttered in their holders. Furniture threw long shadows across the hardwood floor with its worn Persian runner. The huge clock in its ornate wooden case tick-tock, tick-tocked, the brass pendulum swinging slowly to and fro, the monotonous noise only accentuating the ominous silence. The house seemed to be waiting for me to make one more move, seemed to be listening. I moved down one step, then another, repressing an urge to scream. Where the hell was Vladimir?

  I moved down one more step. He came out from behind the giant clock and stood looking up at me.

  My heart leaped. I seemed to freeze. The dark blackbrown eyes glowed with hostility and … and something else. His lips twisted into a sardonic, mocking smile. In his black boots and dark blue velvet livery, with the fur-trimmed blue cape around his shoulders, he was a terrifying sight, gigantic, as tall as a tree, it seemed, that powerful physique solid muscle. His head was uncovered, the thick blond hair gleaming dark yellow in the candlelight. Shadows lightly brushed the lower part of that fierce, not unattractive face. The eyes glowed, dark hot coals, glowing, gleaming. The sardonic smile was utterly chilling.

  “You go somewhere?” he asked. His voice was much too polite.

  “I—I came down to fetch another book from the library.”

  “In your cloak?”

  “The house is extremely cold—or hadn’t you noticed.”

  “I think you lie,” he said.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you think.”

  Don’t let him see that you’re frightened. Play it haughty. Don’t, for Christ’s sake, let him suspect you’re scared to death and can hardly keep from swooning.

  “The haughty lady,” he said. His voice was ugly now. “Always so cold, so imperious. You put Vladimir in his place, you believe. You remind him he is dirt beneath your feet.”

  “If the shoe fits,” I retorted.

  He scowled darkly. “What does this mean?”

  “It’s an English expression,” I said coldly. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time to explain it now.”

  “You are in a hurry to fetch this book.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You lie. You trick me once. You make the fool of me. This won’t happen tonight. Tonight I put you in your place.”

  “Oh?” I was blithely unconcerned. “And just where is my place?”

  “On your back, like the whore you are.”

  I stared at him in horror, my blood icy as I recognized what else burned in those hostile eyes. He moved nearer the foot of the stairs, standing in a pool of candlelight, and I saw the enormous bulge in the fork of his breeches and knew what he planned to do. My knees wobbled, threatening to fold up beneath me.

  “Don’t—don’t come any closer,” I warned.

  “I take you right here in the hall, on the floor, with all of the candles burning. I take you with all my force, pounding hard, thrusting deep, laughing as you squirm and squeal beneath me. You probably enjoy this kind of punishment. You probably beg for more.”

  My throat went dry. I tried to speak. I couldn’t.

  “I wait a long time for this,” he told me. “The first time I see you I know I will someday have you. You are in your bath in the English inn, and I pull you up out of the water and dry you off and later on I must take the barmaid by force in the upstairs broom closet. She squeals and squirms against the wall as I thrust. I cover her mouth with my hand. I force her because I cannot have you. After I am spent I take her throat in my hands and squeeze a little and I tell her if she reports this to anyone I come back and choke her to death. She keeps her mouth
shut, and I take her several more times before we finally leave the inn.”

  “You—you’re unspeakably vile,” I whispered.

  “She is a whore, like you. She grows to love that broom closet.”

  He moved a step nearer. The bulge was throbbing, straining against dark blue velvet. His eyes were glittering with brutal desire, black-brown flames snapping. His mouth lifted at one corner in another mocking smile as he savored his power, my helplessness. I was gripping something in my hand, gripping it so tightly my palm and fingers hurt. The pistol. I had actually forgotten I had it. My hand was at my side, the pistol concealed by the swell of my skirts.

  “Stay back,” I said.

  “You are afraid.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Your voice shakes.”

  “Stay back, Vladimir. I’m warning you.”

  He laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh that reverberated in the stillness. I gripped the pistol tightly, a deadly calm possessing me now. I looked at him standing there near the foot of the stairs and knew without question he wasn’t going to lay a hand on me. The laughter faded away, the silence heavier than before, and I, too, thought I heard distant shouting, a faint, barely audible sound that might have been the wind. Vladimir smiled, his eyes relishing every detail of my person, his erection swelling even more.

  “When Count Orlov starts to leave, I ask him about you. ‘What about the woman?’ I ask. ‘What shall I do with her?’ ‘Do anything you like with her,’ he tells me. ‘She’s yours now.’ He gives me his whore.”

  “I belong to no one,” I said.

  “You belong to me. I use you like I used the barmaid. I give it to you rough. I make you pay for all your disdain and haughty airs. I make you cook for me and lick my boots and spread your legs, and when I feel like it I beat you thoroughly. When my friends return, I share you with them. I laugh as I watch them take you, one right after the other. In Russia we know what to do with women like you. We know how to treat them.”

  “Chivalry is dead, it seems.”

  “What is this ‘chivalry’?”

  “Something you couldn’t begin to comprehend.”

  I wondered what caused a man to become so twisted, so full of hatred and violence. Vladimir had hated me vehemently from the moment he first laid eyes on me, had longed to hurt and humiliate me. Why? Was it because I represented something he knew he could never hope to attain? Was it because he secretly hated serving another man, hated his master and, not daring to express this hatred, channeled it toward someone he could hate openly—a foreigner, a lowly woman, a whore in velvet who treated him coldly and made him feel his inferior position all the more keenly? Whatever the reason, the hatred was there, burning in his eyes along with the lust, and it was a frightening thing to behold.

  “Now you pay,” he said.

  He moved slowly to the bottom of the stairs and placed his large hand on the smooth wooden railing.

  “Don’t take another step,” I said coldly.

  “And if I do?”

  “Don’t,” I said.

  He grinned. “You will hurt me?”

  “I will kill you,” I said.

  “This is very funny. This is a big jest.”

  “It’s no jest, Vladimir. It’s a promise.”

  “I laugh.”

  “You won’t, I assure you.”

  “No more talk. Now I take.”

  He moved up one step, another, then another, slowly, relishing his power over me, savoring the sensations inside, a great, malicious cat slowly stalking a mouse, taunting his prey. I stood very still, not at all alarmed, held fast by a steely resolve. I told him to stop. He chuckled, eyes glittering. He moved up another step, just four steps below me now, and he lifted his foot to move up another and I raised the pistol from under the folds of velvet and cocked it and aimed it between his eyes.

  Color drained from his face. He opened his mouth to say something. The words never came. He tried to grab at the gun and I squeezed the trigger and his forehead seemed to explode into a mass of redness. The impact threw him against the railing and the wood creaked and then his body flopped over to the other side and crashed against the wall and crumpled and tumbled haphazardly downstairs, arms and legs flailing crazily. It landed on the floor in a twisted heap, a dark red pool forming beneath his head. The barrel of the pistol was smoking still, tiny spirals of smoke curling in the air. I blew on it and lowered it and stared at the corpse below as echoes of the deafening gunshot reverberated throughout the house.

  Perhaps a minute and a half passed before the front door burst open and one of the guards came tearing in with rifle raised. His face was ashen, and it turned even grayer when he spied the twisted corpse and the pool of blood. A towering brute with rough-hewn features, deep-set blue eyes and thick black hair, he wore the Orlov livery and short fur-trimmed cape and had apparently lost the black fur hat in his haste to reach the house. I had seen him several times, but I couldn’t recall his name. Holding the rifle firmly, he came nearer the corpse, staring at it in dismay, and then he looked up and saw me standing on the staircase.

  “What happened?” he cried.

  “I shot him,” I said.

  “You shot Vladimir?”

  “He intended to rape me. I warned him I would kill him. He didn’t listen.”

  The guard’s face slowly suffused with color, the blue eyes snapping with anger. “Vladimir was my friend!”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “This afternoon, after the others leave, he comes out, we have vodka together, he tells me what he plans to do with you. Orlov gives you to him and he says he will share. Now he is dead!”

  “Very,” I said.

  “You murder my friend!”

  He stared at me with blazing eyes, gripping the rifle tightly, and after a moment an idea dawned on him and I could almost see the thoughts shaping in his none-too-bright mind. Orlov had given me to Vladimir and Vladimir had intended to share. As Vladimir was dead, why not take me for himself? Sensual speculation replaced the anger in his eyes. He grinned a wide grin, extremely pleased with his good fortune. My pistol was useless until it was reloaded. He knew that. He put the rifle down, leaning it against the wall, looking at me with merry greed.

  “This is very interesting,” he said.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I told him.

  “You can’t shoot me. You have already fired.”

  “I can bash your brains out with the butt of the pistol.”

  “I like this. I like a spirited woman. We have many good times fighting together.”

  Over his shoulder, beyond the hallway, I saw Mitya step in through the front door, which the guard had left open. My expression didn’t change. Slowly, silently, he crept toward the guard. I looked at the man with eyes that were suddenly appreciative of his masculine charms. A provocative smile shaped on my lips. He was surprised by this sudden change in my attitude.

  “You like the idea, yes?”

  “I might. I—I never cared for Vladimir, but you—you look quite appetizing.”

  “The women always like me. Once a very great lady in St. Petersburg, a princess, she pays me to make love to her.”

  “There’s no accounting for tastes,” I said. “Come—come a little closer. Let me get a good look at my new protector.”

  “I protect you good. Vladimir, he has disdain for all females. He never likes them, always takes them by force. Me, I stroke them and pet them and make them pant and purr before I stick it in.”

  “A true gentleman,” I said.

  He came nearer, almost stumbling over the corpse he had completely forgotten. Mitya reached silently for the rifle left leaning against the wall, took hold of the barrel with both hands, raised it. The guard grinned at me, stepping closer. Mitya swung the rifle back in a high arc and the heavy butt came smashing down on top of the guard’s head and there was a horrible noise like a melon splitting in two. His mouth flew open. His eyes glazed instantly. His knees gave wa
y and he fell heavily, landing half atop the corpse.

  “Is—is he dead?” I asked shakily.

  “Probably,” Mitya said. “We must hurry. They come.”

  “Who—what are you—”

  He pointed toward the open door. Through it, far in the distance, I could see bright orange fireflies dancing in the woods facing the house. They swayed and swirled, moving closer, and I could hear the shouting clearly now, raucous cries that chilled the blood. The fireflies were torches. Pugachev’s peasants were on their way to the house, would be clearing the woods any moment now, and then they would be swarming over the lawns. I was stunned, momentarily unable to move a muscle. Mitya scowled and leaped up the steps and took my wrist and dragged me roughly down into the hall.

  “The other rifle—it’s in the library—” I exclaimed. “The powder horn and bags of shot. We must—”

  “Lead the way! Quickly!”

  I flew into the library with Mitya close behind. No candles were lighted, and the room was a dark cave. I stumbled against a table, cursed aloud, groping my way toward the corner where I had left the rifle behind the large chair. The shouting outside grew louder, closer. They must have cleared the trees. Jesus! Where was the chair? I fell to my knees and my head bumped against the arm of the chair and I uttered a cry of relief and reached behind the chair and grasped the rifle, handing it to Mitya.

  “The powder horn—I can’t find—”

  “Hurry!”

  “Here it is. I’ve got it. Can you take the bags of shot? No, you’ve got both the rifles. I can manage—”

  I slipped the pistol and the powder horn into the roomy pockets inside the cloak and, gripping a bag of shot in each hand, climbed to my feet. Mitya was already on his way out of the room. I stumbled after him. Reaching the hall, I foolishly peered out the door and saw men in the distance, racing toward the house, waving torches, waving pitchforks, waving scythes. They must be able to see us in the lighted hall as well. From the basement came the sounds of a woman shrieking in terror. Old Mathilda, probably. Her prayers weren’t going to help much now.