When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I’m glad you appreciate me.”

  “Oh, I appreciate you, love. I plan to spend the rest of my life appreciating you.”

  He stood up and pulled on his shirt and tucked the tail into the waistband of his breeches and tied the red scarf around his neck. His hair still tumbled over his brow in untidy locks. I went over to him and smoothed them back, and he curled his arms around my waist and grinned and looked lovingly into my eyes. Without words, we expressed all that was in our hearts, and I knew Jeremy loved me every bit as much as I loved him. Several moments went by before I finally pulled away.

  “You’d better bring the horse around and harness him up,” I told Jeremy. “I’ll bring the rest of the things out.”

  “Sure hate to leave this place,” he drawled.

  “So do I, darling, but we’ve dallied long enough.”

  He sighed in mock exasperation, pulled the black sheepskin hat down over his head and put on the bulky coat. I carried the food bags out and put them in the sleigh and returned for the rifles. The horse had a jaunty, energetic gait as Jeremy led him around, chatting to him as though to an old friend. I brought out the last rifle, the pistol, powder horn, and bag of shot, and then I went back inside and put out the fire and straightened up, checking to make sure everything was as we found it. We owed a great debt to the unknown owner of this place. I silently blessed him as I stepped outside and closed the door.

  “Ready to go?” Jeremy inquired.

  I nodded, and he helped me into the sleigh and climbed up beside me. We were soon on our way, the horse prancing nimbly down the narrow pathway without any encouragement. As we turned onto the road I cast a final look at the squat log hut that had been our haven. I knew I would never forget it, would never forget the rapture we had shared there. Jeremy reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  “I feel the same way, love.”

  “We’re so very lucky,” I said quietly.

  “That we are.”

  We drove on through the morning, the pale blue sky arching above as clear and smooth as silk, the trees on either side of the road glittering like crystal. The sleet had frozen, forming a shiny white crust. The beauty was stark and icy, rather forbidding, and the silence, broken only by the sound of horse hoofs and skimming wooden runners, was awesome. Jeremy and I might have been the only two people on earth as we covered mile after mile of this beautiful, frozen world without seeing a single sign of human habitation. An hour passed and then another, and the sameness of the scenery began to grow oppressive. I gazed at the icy limbs, longing for a sight of green.

  “Texas is going to seem like paradise after this,” I said after a while. “I don’t care if I never see snow and ice again.”

  “I understand Russia’s quite lovely in springtime and summer—fields of golden wheat, the forest all shady and green, wild poppies blooming under the hedges.”

  “I don’t think I care to wait around to see it.”

  Jeremy grinned. “Neither do I. By the time spring arrives we should already be in New Orleans, making preparations for our trek on to Texas.”

  “I—I miss Em dreadfully,” I said.

  “Want to know something? I think I do, too. Never knew a lass with such a smart mouth, so much sass. Randy has my sympathy.”

  “He’s lucky to have her—even if she does lead him a merry chase. It’s going to be so nice to be among friends.” My voice was pensive. “It’s going to be even nicer having a place of our own, settling down at last.”

  “Never thought I was the kind of chap to settle down,” he replied. “Uh, before I met you,” he added hastily.

  “Oh?”

  “I figure settling down with you will provide all the excitement and adventure one man can handle.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I inquired.

  Jeremy grinned. “Take it as you will, love. Life with you is never going to be dull.”

  “Not as dull as it would have been if you’d married Janette Henderson,” I told him.

  He looked puzzled. “Who?”

  “The coal king’s daughter. Newcastle. All that wealth and not unattractive.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Her. Not a patch on you, love. Come to think of it, I never met a woman who was.”

  He looked at me and grinned his engaging grin, and I maintained a diplomatic silence, fully aware of the vast number of women he had known, attracting them in droves since early youth. Faithless he may have been in the past, but he wouldn’t have an opportunity in the future. I intended to see that he had no desire to roam. Living with a rogue like Jeremy Bond was not going to be easy, but those quirks and idiosyncrasies were what made him so appealing, so stimulating and exciting. Thinking of that future, I sighed, nestling against his broad shoulder, and, later, I was surprised to open my eyes and find that we had stopped moving. I sat up, still a bit groggy.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” I said.

  “Sure did, love. Slept at least two hours. Thought I’d give the horse a rest, find something to eat. There’s not much left in the bags.”

  “I know.”

  “A couple of pieces of dried beef—we’re out of sausage—half a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese. Lots of apples and carrots, though. We’re going to have to give those to the horse—we’re also out of oats.”

  “What will we do?” I asked.

  Jeremy wasn’t at all perturbed. “We’ll eat what we have, love. I figure there’s a village about ten miles or so ahead—I studied several maps of this part of the country before I headed north. Perhaps we’ll be able to replenish our supplies there. If not, we’ll improvise. I saw lots of rabbits, while you were sleeping away. Roasted rabbit’s almost as tasty as chicken.”

  My leg muscles felt cramped, my body stiff, and it was good to get out of the sleigh. I could hear a dozen tiny bones popping as I threw my shoulders back and stretched my arms. Jeremy pulled a bunch of carrots out of the food bag and fed them to the horse as I walked up and down, restoring circulation, crusty snow crunching under my heels. The horse munched noisily, delighted with its lunch. After devouring all the carrots and two apples, it lapped water from Jeremy’s palm, then whinnied with pleasure as he stroked its neck and told it what a good boy it was. I thought about Natasha, sad as I remembered her winsome ways.

  I ate bread and cheese, letting Jeremy finish the dried beef, insisting I didn’t want any. He ate with his customary gusto, lounging against the sleigh with the smelly sheepskin coat flapping open, the hat at a jaunty tilt. I had an apple and gave Jeremy the last chunk of bread. He was so casual, so confident, as though we were picnicking on an English lane instead of finishing the last of our food on a desolate Russian road. I kept glancing back up the road we had traversed, unnerved by the silence and solitude.

  “Looking for wolves?” Jeremy asked.

  “I—I was just thinking about the men Pugachev must have sent after us,” I replied. “I can’t help—worrying just a little.”

  Jeremy reached for an apple. “No need to worry, Marietta,” he told me. “If, between us, we can demolish a pack of howling wolves, a handful of inept peasants would be child’s play.”

  “I—suppose you’re right.”

  “I feel safe as houses with a crack shot like you at my side,” he added jauntily. “Chap doesn’t have to fret when he’s got the best there is backing him up.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but you don’t have to humor me.”

  He took a bite of apple, chewed it and grinned, looking at me with mischievous blue eyes. “Most of the women I’ve known were a marvel with embroidery and needlepoint, a whiz at watercolors, could play a pretty tune on the harpsichord. You’re the first one I’ve met who can put a bullet between a man’s eyes at fifty paces.”

  “I had to learn to shoot,” I said defensively. “It might not be a particularly feminine accomplishment, but it’s been a hell of a lot more valuable to me than needlepoint or embroidery.”

  “How are you at watercolors?”<
br />
  “Awful, I imagine. I’ve never attempted one.”

  “Well, at least you can cook,” he said. “I guess I’ll keep you.”

  He tossed the apple core aside, grinned again and adjusted the slant of his hat. I wanted to slap him and I wanted to smile. Instead, I climbed into the sleigh with cool dignity and arranged the blankets over my knees as he swung up beside me. He gathered up the reins, gave them a smart snap and curled his arm around my shoulders as we glided down the road again with the horse moving at a brisk clip. An hour went by, the road straight and white, monotonous, horse hooves clopping, runners sliding smoothly over the icy surface.

  “I thought you said there was a village,” I said.

  “There is. I promise.”

  “Ten miles or so, you said. Surely we’ve come that far already.”

  “Trust me, love.”

  I observed wryly that most of the trouble in my life had been caused by my trusting men. Jeremy chuckled, exuding jaunty confidence, but as another half hour passed and there was still no sign of human habitation he began to lose some of his aplomb. The pale blue sky and radiant sunlight that had enchanted me this morning seemed to taunt me now, and I longed for some clouds to dim the blinding sparkle. Snug beside him, our bodies close and warm under the blankets, I tormented myself with visions of elaborate meals, savory meats dripping with juice, steaming vegetables, lavish desserts.

  “There!” Jeremy exclaimed, pointing.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “A spiral of smoke. The village must be just beyond that curve in the road.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “It’s plain as day. I told you we’d find a village, love.”

  Jeremy slowed the horse down as, five minutes later, we approached the small village in a clearing to the left of the road. The woods surrounding it had been cleared, and twenty or so brownish gray dwellings stood bleakly under the sun, conical roofs crudely thatched, shaggy, discolored sheepskin hanging over doorways. A slightly more sturdy hut with odd symbols painted over the doorway obviously housed the village shaman, and there was a larger building that served as storage hut and community cookhouse. The dwellings formed a circle around a clearing where a feeble fire burned. Half a dozen children in shabby clothes huddled around the fire, roasting potatoes on the ends of long sticks. The village, in the middle of nowhere, had a desolate, defeated air, like a pile of cinders long burned out.

  “And in St. Petersburg they dine in marble halls,” I said as we drew up near the fire.

  “The peasants have a just cause,” Jeremy agreed, “but Pugachev’s way isn’t the answer. The Empress is trying to make reforms, I understand, but I imagine it’s a long, slow process.”

  “Too slow to help these poor people.”

  The children had run away as we pulled up, their half-roasted potatoes abandoned in the fire. The village appeared to be deserted then, an uncanny silence prevailing as Jeremy and I sat in the sleigh in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by the ash-colored huts. Slowly, door flaps began to lift, faces began to appear, dull eyes staring out at us. I heard a goat bleating from within one of the huts. The sound was quickly silenced. The filthy sheepskin flap hanging over the shaman’s door lifted, and a very old man in a very shabby purple robe stepped out. He had long gray tresses and a flowing gray beard. His ancient face was seamed, emaciated, his eyes large and black and filled with apprehension as he gazed at us. He made no effort to approach the sleigh, just stood there in front of his hut, clearly distressed by our arrival.

  Several moments passed, and then a tall, gaunt-faced woman with a knot of black hair fastened at the nape of her neck stepped outside, clutching a tattered gray shawl about her. Her blue dress was faded and worn yet her manner was curiously regal. A little girl with stringy flaxen hair peeked out at us from behind her legs, blue eyes wide as she stared at us. Others began to appear, hesitant, nervous, until, in a matter of moments, the entire village had come out to examine us with that same apprehension I had seen in the shaman’s eyes. No one spoke. No one moved. They stood like mutes, like zombies. There were very few young men among them, mostly women, children, and old men, although one brawny fellow who looked like a blacksmith stood with his arm curled tightly around the shoulders of a thin blonde woman.

  “Not exactly friendly,” Jeremy remarked. “Not hostile, either. They seem to be afraid of us.”

  “I—I noticed.”

  “The old chap in the purple robe seems to be their leader. I’ll have a word with him. You stay in the sleigh, Marietta, and—uh—keep the pistol handy, just in case.”

  Jeremy climbed out of the sleigh and strolled casually over to the shaman, who shook his head and backed away a few paces, indicating that he had nothing to say. Jeremy greeted him amiably and began to question him in a quiet voice. The man who looked like a blacksmith mumbled something to the thin blonde and marched over to join Jeremy and the shaman. The old men followed him until soon the entire male populace stood in front of the shaman’s hut. Although their manner was more timorous than threatening, I rested my fingers lightly on the pistol, ready to spring to Jeremy’s defense if the need arose. The men began to speak in low, nervous voices. I couldn’t distinguish the words from where I sat, but from their expressions and gestures I sensed they were imploring Jeremy to leave the village at once.

  The women stood in front of their respective huts, mute, staring at me. A little boy darted from behind his mother’s skirts, dashed over to the fire and snatched up the stick that held his potato. He gave me a quick grin before scurrying back to safety. The tall, gaunt-faced woman in tattered gray shawl and worn blue dress frowned, nodded her head decisively and said something to the woman beside her. Her neighbor looked horrified, attempting to restrain her as the woman started toward the sleigh. She moved in a purposeful stride, shawl wrapped close, head held high.

  Stopping beside the sleigh, she gazed at me with level brown eyes. Her black hair was streaked with gray, and, though gaunt and lined, her face had strength and a unique kind of beauty.

  “I am Johanna,” she told me. “The others, they are afraid to speak with you. I am not afraid. You would like tea?”

  “I—I would be most grateful,” I replied.

  “Come. We will go inside my house.”

  I hesitated a moment, glancing toward the shaman’s hut. Jeremy was explaining to the men that we merely wanted to replenish our supplies, that we meant no harm. Confident he was in no danger, I got out of the sleigh, slipping the pistol into the pocket of my cloak. Johanna led the way to her hut as the other women watched in horror, whispering among themselves. She lifted the sheepskin flap and motioned for me to step inside.

  An oil lamp burned weakly, shedding a pale yellow light that washed the windowless walls. There was a cot, a chest, two chairs. A tarnished bronze samovar was bubbling, and the goat I had heard bleating earlier stirred nervously, tied to a stake driven into the straw-littered dirt floor. Two pigs and a number of chickens also occupied the place, the former snoozing peacefully, the latter idly pecking in the straw. The little girl with the flaxen hair and wide blue eyes sat contentedly in a corner, stroking a doll made from a corncob. Johanna spoke to her brusquely, and the child laid down her doll, got to her feet, and scurried out of the hut.

  “My daughter Kyra,” Johanna said. “Please, do sit down.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “I am most fortunate. I own a samovar. I am able to buy tea the last time the trader comes to our village in his gypsy caravan.” She poured tea into a thick brown cup and handed it to me. “I am sorry I have no sugar to offer. This I cannot buy. The tea is strong enough?”

  “It’s wonderful, Johanna. You are very kind.”

  Johanna scowled, dismissing such a preposterous assumption.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “You are the English woman, the one with hair the color of flame. Just four hours ago they are here, this Pulaski and seven others, looking for
you.”

  I could feel the color drain from my cheeks. “They—they were here?” I clutched the cup to keep my hands from trembling.

  “They search. They question us. They make threats. If we help you, they say, our village will be burned.”

  “That—that’s why the others were afraid,” I said.

  “They are afraid, yes, but I, Johanna, am not afraid. My husband Ivan, he was the head man in our village, second only to the shaman in authority. Months ago, this man Pulaski comes to recruit for Pugachev. My husband defies him and—and he is killed.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Johanna.”

  “The young men of our village, they go with Pulaski. My son Peter, he is only seventeen. He—he goes, too, travels to the Volga, and two months later he is killed in battle.”

  She stood staring at the bare brown wall, seeing something else in her mind, and the hands at her sides were curled into tight fists.

  “One kind of tyranny has been replaced by another,” she said. “This I tell my people, but they are like the sheep. Pugachev is a very evil man, I tell them. They are afraid to cross him.”

  She turned to look at me, her face hard, her eyes determined. “This is why I help you. I hear this man you are with tell our shaman you need food. I, Johanna, will give it to you, half my portion for the month.”

  “But then—then you and your daughter—”

  “We do not go without. I am fortunate. I have the chickens for eggs, the goat for milk. I barter. I trade tea for bread and meat. If necessary I slaughter one of my pigs.”

  “I have gold, Johanna. You must let me give you—”

  “Gold? What use is it to me? You have blankets in your sleigh, I see. If—if it is your desire, you may give me one of them so that my Kyra will not shiver so at night.”

  “You shall have two of them.”

  Johanna nodded curtly and told me to finish my tea. When we left the hut a few minutes later, Jeremy was standing by the sleigh, looking extremely discouraged. The villagers stood silently, watching him as though he were some kind of pariah. The shaman was muttering an incantation, his arms waving in the air. Johanna moved with a stern, defiant mien, showing her people that she, at least, was not a sheep, shaming them for their cowardice. The women whispered nervously, the men looked unhappy indeed, but no one tried to stop her when she took our two food bags and carried them into the cookhouse.