Golden Paradise

Stefan's ill humor was somewhat mollified by her ready acquiescence, so he refrained from saying thank-you and having the last word on the subject. Countess Lazaroff's next statement, however, destroyed his short-lived complacency.

'I'll need some money,' she said, 'when we reach Aleksandropol. If you could lend me a few hundred roubles I could find lodgings tonight. After a long day of this abominable heat, I'd seriously consider selling my soul for a bath.' Unfamiliar with any of the nuances of feminine wiles, educated to establish effectively, then deal with a problem, and perhaps at base just as indulged and spoiled as the Prince, she was unaware her simple request would not be viewed as simple at all.

Stefan's resentment returned full force at her damnable tone. He also knew that with thirty-thousand troops bivouacked in Aleksandropol, the only way anyone would find a room was by rank, title and large sums of money. She was a woman, though, despite his own lack of interest in her rotund person. No doubt she could find accommodations on her own for a price other than gold. But she was also Count Lazaroff's daughter; he couldn't simply abandon her to the army's train with the other refugees as he would have were she a peasant. He supposed, he thought with a silent sigh, he was obliged to act the gentleman. 'Allow me, Countess,' he said, only because he'd been taught to protect the weaker sex, 'to find you accommodations tonight.'

'How thoughtful,' Lisaveta replied, as if she hadn't recognized the coercion prompting him, as if she didn't know how hazardous her position would be, alone in an army camp.

'My pleasure, mademoiselle,' he murmured. They could have been at a court soiree for all their superficial politesse.

'I so appreciate your help.' Lisaveta almost choked on the words, for Prince Bariatinsky was the epitome of all she despised in the aristocracy. Too rich, too handsome, too spoiled by both his fame and infamy. She'd recognized him shortly after she regained consciousness, realizing then why he'd seemed familiar to her at first sight. Engravings of the Prince in uniform were prevalent throughout Russia women collected them to pine over.

At twenty-two he had been the conqueror of the Citadel of Tubruz, at twenty-five the savior and avenging angel of the survivors of the massacre at Mirum. His victories in Asia had subdued at last the Khanates of Khiva and Kokand. In fact, the youngest general ever gazetted in the history of the Russian army was a universal hero. He was the famous and fearless Prince Stefan, always dressed in his white Chevalier Gardes uniform and mounted on his black Orloff steed, challenging death and the enemy at the head of his cavalry.

He was also famous-or notorious-for his love life.

And she suspected the women fondly collecting his likeness were more interested in his amorous exploits than his military ones.

'My pleasure,' he tightly replied, wishing for his part that he were with his Gypsy lover, Choura, in the cool altitudes of his mountain lodge, miles away from the scorching heat and Countess Lazaroff. He had no tolerance for bluestocking women and less for unbecoming nonconformist females with a propensity for emphatic declarative statements. She was entirely lacking in the feminine graces and attributes that attracted him to women. In fact, she was damned annoying.

Both seemed mildly irritated at the course of their conversation, and the remainder of the ride into Aleksandropol passed in a peevish silence.

Chapter Two

As they approached Aleksandropol, the Russian army's base of operations eighteen miles from the Turkish border, Stefan said in a voice brusque with fatigue, 'Until we reach our lodging, I expect you to obey my orders. The city's jammed with veterans of the siege.' He didn't say they'd been without women for weeks. Instead he added, 'Soldiers at war can't be expected to act like gentlemen.' He hoped she wouldn't argue, because he wasn't in the mood to deal with any more of her idiosyncrasies.

Surveying the ranks of lounging soldiers at the city gate, all appearing remarkably large and burly, their eyes trained on her in a disconcerting way, Lisaveta judiciously replied, 'Yes, sir.'

Stefan glanced down at her swiftly, for her quiet tone and manner were extremely unlike her previous confidence.

'Are we safe from that mob?' she asked, uncertainty prominent in her voice. She was seeing lust with brutal clarity, and it took enormous control to keep her voice from shaking. Stefan was only one man, she thought. Could even his rank protect her from what she saw in the soldiers' eyes? It was the same look she'd seen in Faizi's eyes, although his had been a more leisured inspection. Under the circumstances she felt sure none of these men were interested in leisurely concerns.

Before Stefan could answer he was recognized and a series of cheers erupted, traveling down the ranks of men in a spontaneous cry of welcome. Gruff voices called to him as commander and comrade as they passed through the medieval gate and entered the narrow cobbled streets of the city. Stefan acknowledged the noisy clamor, responding to his men with casual waves and a smile, with personal comments to one and then another, recognizing a remarkable number of men by name. It was obvious he was a hero to them, adored and revered and loved.

But beneath camaraderie and facetious banter, Lisaveta was still aware of the soldiers' eyes dwelling on her as they passed, as hungry wolves would survey a tender lamb. Unconsciously she moved closer to the large man behind her.

After a dozen turns and a winding uphill climb, the crowds of soldiers thinned, the shouting died away, and they reached a small villa the Prince must have known of, for he made no inquiries on the way. Riding through a gateway into a paved courtyard walled round with a low wrought-iron railing, Stefan said, 'Wait here,' and slid to the ground, his hands steadying Lisaveta on the saddle. Handing her his Colt revolver, he added, 'Shoot anyone who comes too close.'

'Shoot?' Lisaveta said, not reaching for the extended weapon.

He looked at her for a moment, not wishing to alarm her unduly. But even nondescript as she was, women were in such rare supply she should have a firearm for protection. 'A precaution only, mademoiselle' he said, 'until I return.'

'Should I come in with you?' Brave under normal circumstances, she knew she was seriously outnumbered with thousands of troops in Aleksandropol.

'I'll only be a moment,' Stefan replied, knowing he'd have to oust the villa's current occupants. He outranked them, but sometimes more than a polite request was required. Additionally, he couldn't be certain the men wouldn't be 'entertaining' themselves with some of the available women, a situation that could prove embarrassing for his passenger. Placing the Colt in her hand, he wrapped her fingers around the grip and asked, 'Can you shoot?'

Lisaveta nodded, mute and touched with apprehension.

He gave her a smile, the first she'd seen since meeting him, and she understood immediately a portion of his allure. His dark eyes lost their severity, his perfect teeth flashed white, his sculpted mouth reminded her powerfully of classic Greek archetypes come to life. She felt bathed in a sudden shimmering happiness.

'Good,' he said, and was gone, taking the entrance stairs three at a time.

Despite the heat, the surrounding air seemed to cool momentarily at his exit. Good heavens, she thought, shaking away the unusual sensation. Was she so gullible, so unsophisticated, that a simple smile from the illustrious Prince Bariatinsky changed the temperature of the sun?

No doubt he was familiar with the power of his smile. No doubt he was familiar with women responding to that smile. Well, that might be, but he was also overbearing and imperious, and while she was grateful for his rescue, she disliked his style of womanizing man.

The next moment she chastised herself for not showing proper gratitude for her rescue. Without him, she'd be dead now or wishing for death. Certainly, it was the height of ingratitude to be pettishly caviling over his lady loves and amorous leisure activities. She was truly grateful. Period. His style of life was incidental. And she summoned a smile to her face in indication of her sincerity.

He didn't seem to notice when he returned a short time later.

'We're set,' he said gruffly, and lifted her down.

He was enormously tall, she thought, a wayward perception that she immediately suppressed as totally