contrary, a head-over-heels, ungovernable love that inundated her mind and body and spirit. He had become as essential as air to her.
But for all her practicality she still indulged her wretchedness on the journey to the railhead; she cried until she couldn't cry anymore, until only great gulping sobs were left. Then, tearless and exhausted, she merely thought of him. She found herself memorizing him against an unknown future, as one would a treasured poem one wishes to keep always, committing to her mind small and cherished details of his perfection: his stark handsomeness, both elegantly Persian and incongruously savage like the warrior tribes he commanded; his power, not only of musculature and height but of disposition; the gentleness she'd so often experienced; and most of all his smile. The most charming smile devised by man. A smile she'd basked in, a smile she'd often brought to his lips, a smile she'd kissed in amused reply. A smile she'd first seen in Aleksandropol.
She shut her eyes and saw him as he'd looked that first night in Aleksandropol, dressed in silk robes and limned by moonlight; she remembered how he'd looked when she'd wakened beside him, drowsy as he often was early in the morning because he woke more slowly than she; and she saw him as she had each day of their holiday, seated nude on the bank of his mountain stream with the sun on his wet hair, content, at peace and at home. He belonged in the mountains, he said.
A shame she didn't, as well.
Stefan made a conscious effort at conversation with Haci on their ride back to Tiflis. He needed distraction from his thoughts; he needed to distance himself mentally as well as physically from a woman who'd become too much a part of his life. It unnerved him, this need he felt, this intense craving to have her riding beside him, talking to him, making him happy. What a strange word, he abruptly thought, one he'd never considered as particularly significant. He'd thought in terms of excitement or action, stimulation or pleasure, never happiness.
Was this what had happened to his father? Had this sudden need for one particular person struck him as suddenly? The thought terrified him for a brief mindless moment, as though he'd lost control.
'Tell me, was Choura in form at Chezevek's Restaurant,' he said, turning to Haci, intent on repudiating these indications of misplaced emotion.
'She's bragging about her new price.' Haci's smile flashed against his bronzed skin. 'She's increased in value, thanks to you.'
'She wouldn't have left otherwise, and I wasn't in the mood to haggle. My offer was one I knew she'd take.'
'Was the Countess worth it?' Haci asked familiarly. He was the same age as Stefan, and they'd shared more than years of soldiering; they'd grown up together, for Haci's father had been aide to the Field Marshal.
'More, unfortunately.' They spoke in the Kurdish dialect, although Haci was as proficient as Stefan in French, and the softly guttural diction lent impact to the plain answer.
'That's a problem,' Haci said with a sidelong glance at Stefan.
'I don't
'Fair enough,' his childhood friend said. 'Do you think the Grand Duke Michael will get the Turks to the bargaining table?'
'Do you think the Grand Duke can find his behind with a road map?' Stefan sardonically replied.
'In that case I'd better bring my winter gear.'
'I'd recommend it.' And Stefan nudged Cleo into a trot.
Stefan stayed with Haci in the seclusion of his town house, sending Militza an invitation for dinner that evening. More restless than usual, he refused Haci's invitation to Chezevek's later, had his valet repack his kit twice, annoyed his chef with his presence in the kitchen for menu changes and was, in short, noticeably high-strung and moody.
Taking notice of his temperament immediately upon arriving, Militza took one glance about the drawing room and said, 'She's gone, I take it.'
'Yes,' Stefan said tersely. 'And Nadejda?'
'Safely on her way to the excitement of Saint Petersburg. I have a note for you, by the way.'
His head came up immediately and he swung around from the liquor table, where he'd been pouring some wine for his aunt.
'From Nadejda,' she explained, alert to his swift response.
'Oh.' The single word was blatant disappointment. He resumed pouring.
'Would you like to see it? I brought it along.'
'Later. Have you heard the news of the Grand Duke? Haci tells me he's out to end the war speedily.' He'd recovered from his miscalculation and the grin he turned on her was sportive.
'She's telling you to listen to Melikoff and not return to the war, and yes, I talked to Michael before he left Tiflis. He's utterly naive about the Turks.'
'If she mentions Melikoff, maybe you'd better toss it. Michael is utterly naive about everything, believe me. He's going to blow it, guaranteed, and we're all going to have to get our asses down there in double time to save his.' His smile was still cordial, a social smile without sentiment.
'Read it,' Militza said. 'You'll find it enlightening.'
He didn't try to evade her this time, but after handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the opposite couch, he softly said, 'Perhaps I don't want to be enlightened. Perhaps I want to be blissfully ignorant, and perhaps I want to marry Vladimir Taneiev's ministerial influence but I can't, so I'm marrying his daughter.'
'She'll make you unhappy.'
'I won't be seeing much of her.'
'She'll still be the mother of your children.'
'I'm counting on it.' The words came out stone cold and grim.
'Does that mean so much?'
'To me it does.'
'What about love?'
He quirked a brow. 'It hasn't been a problem.'
'What if you fall in love someday?'
'Masha, darling,' he said with light sarcasm, 'remember to whom you speak. Being married doesn't preclude being in love. As you recall, I'm a product of such a union.'
'What if you want to marry her?'
His eyes took on a flinty cast. 'It won't happen to me, Masha. Rest assured. Now, could we change this subject, since we've already exhausted it on numerous occasions in the past? I'm marrying Nadejda whether-' he grinned then, and his tone lightened, as if to mitigate the curtness of his previous declarations '-she knows Melikoff or not.'
Militza snorted both at the mention of Melikoff and at Stefan's stubbornness. 'He's a pig.'
'Yes, but an influential one, you will agree, dear aunt of mine.'
'So you persist in your path to-'
'Destruction,' Stefan offered cheerfully. She gazed at him without speaking for a short time. Since he was alone at home with her, he wore black silk, a shirt and loose trousers belted in costly gem-encrusted gold; the slippers on his bare feet were fine kid, black too, and embroidered with ruby beads. He could have been one of his princely Persian ancestors. But unlike them, he wasn't allowed the luxury of a harem. 'Boredom,' Militza threatened. 'You'll be bored in a day.'
'Well, then I'll leave.' He was lounging and unthreatened by his aunt's bullying.
'Not for long I'd guess, or Papa Vladimir will grow resentful.'
'A soldier's life is not his own,' Stefan sweetly replied.
'I thought you and the Countess enjoyed each other,' Militza interjected, as persistent in her maneuvering as Stefan was in his evasion.
He hesitated the barest fraction of a second before replying, a fact duly noted by his aunt, as was his altered expression. 'As a matter of fact, we did. She's a delightful woman.'
