guessing with calculated experience which defenses would be shored up against attack and which, perhaps, would not. He knew the Turks after all the years of border skirmishing; he knew how Mukhtar Pasha and Mehemet Pasha thought. What he didn't know was the extent of the munitions stored within Kars and, even more daunting, whether the reinforcements coming from the west would reach Kars before him.
He shouldn't have left, of course; he knew that now with a gut-level intensity. But at the time the risk had been minimal or no risk at all. He'd weighed it against his need for Lisaveta and decided he'd have more than a safe margin to accomplish his trip and return. And if Hussein Pasha hadn't decided on this suicide march he'd be well within his schedule. Unfortunately, he was racing against time now. The track to Vladikavkaz had been cleared so his train wouldn't encounter any delays, the engineer had orders to proceed at top speed-Stefan had been assured they could cut ten hours from their normal run-and he was relying on his intrinsic luck after that to carry him through.
Slightly more than two hours later he glanced at the clock on his desk, finished the southwest angle of attack by noting the cavalry regiments to be held in reserve and, setting aside his maps, leaned back in his chair and stretched. The muscles across his shoulders ached and he flexed his arms briefly to relax the tension. So much depended on the attack, so much depended on his assessment of their options. The western campaign in Bulgaria and Romania would be dramatically influenced by the success or failure of the attack on Kars.
And failure was unthinkable.
He'd never failed.
Standing, he pushed his chair back and strode to the windows. Lifting aside the heavy draperies, he stared out into the blackness rushing by, only an occasional twinkle of light in a distant dwelling evidence of another living being. He felt very much alone in the luxurious railway car, as though he stood a solitary figure in a dark void, as though the entire burden of the war's success were on his shoulders. He must be more tired than usual, he thought, to feel the depression so intensely. Much of the burden of the Tsar's wars had been his responsibility for years now and he'd never felt the weight so oppressively.
Perhaps the siege had lasted too long; perhaps they should have attacked sooner; maybe he was experiencing a sense of lost opportunities at not being more insistent in his views in the staff conferences. Shaking away his thoughts of what might have been, he walked to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a small cognac. It was futile to ponder days and weeks that were past, he reminded himself as the first draught of fiery liquor traveled down his throat. He'd never been prone to dwell on unalterable circumstance and he refused to be cast into gloom.
Tomorrow he'd finish the cavalry placements and then begin to deal with Suvarov's artillery sketches. He'd told the old general, who'd come up through the ranks on competence alone, that he could help him pinpoint some of the weaker areas in the Turk's defenses after his months of scouting Kars during the siege. Suvarov's artillery was critical in the period before the attack, and then Stefan's cavalry was the assault arm for the infantry. They had to break through the redoubts, they had to silence the cannon commanding the heights, they had to open the way for the foot soldiers… all possible with the right spirit and elusive, fickle luck. His cavalry had always triumphed in the past, for Russia, for his Tsar…and for his father's memory.
His own future, though, was measured in different proportions from the unstable impetuosity of his past, when time was reckoned by the next battle or the next pretty lady in the next convenient bed. His expanded future included a beautiful woman he loved with a passion that colored his every thought. And soon he might have a child to carry on the Bariatinsky dynasty, a child he cherished already when he dared to plan beyond Kars.
'For you, Mama and Papa,' he softly said, raising his glass to the black night speeding by. 'You would have loved them.' Taking a deep breath, he added in a husky murmur, 'And to luck.'
Chapter Seventeen
He woke her by lying down beside her on his large bed and pulling her into his arms, where he held her for long minutes, her body warm from sleep. At leisurely intervals he murmured, 'I love you,' as though the phrase were verbal confirmation of his happiness.
Lisaveta responded with kisses and her own whispered love words, and miles of Russia passed by the darkened bedroom window as they savored their quiet joy. The birch-paneled room was lighted by a single bedside fairy lamp, its pale glow illuminating a limited golden circle hardly reaching the limits of the bed. The dresser, the photos of Stefan's parents on the wall, the black leather campaign chair that had been his father's, were all in shadow. Stefan was still dressed with the exception of his uniform tunic, discarded in the parlor beside his rolls of maps. His long lean body stretched beyond the brilliance of the crystal lamp, the turquoise silk coverlet crushed beneath his boots, his bare torso and arms and slender hands swarthy against Lisaveta's paler flesh and primrose gown. She was tucked close to him, like a small child still half-asleep, her feet covered by the folds of her nightgown. Nestled in the strong curve of his arm, she was thinking she would tell her grandchildren someday how the entire world seemed to be laid at her feet that night in the rushing train traveling south across Russia.
'I've always been lucky,' Stefan softly said, touching the delicate sweep of her jaw, trying to put his feelings into words.
'I believe in Gypsy fate and jinns,' Lisaveta breathed, her quiet voice imbued with a solemn intensity, understanding what Stefan meant. 'I think I always knew you'd appear someday.'
His gaze altered minutely and a teasing infused his words. 'It took me longer to realize.'
'You loved me,' she finished with a surety he admired.
'Yes,' he agreed. 'Although,' he went on, irony prominent in his tone, 'my timing could have been better.'
'We've time now,' she said, and reached up to kiss him.
'Three days,' he murmured against the softness of her mouth.
'For our honeymoon…'
And for mapping the last details of the attack, he thought. 'For our honeymoon,' he affirmed, and kissed her very gently.
He undressed her slowly then, untying ribbon bows and undoing small pearl buttons with a delicate slowness. He was in no hurry. In fact, he felt a rare and uncommon drama as if his wedding night should be approached with a kind of leisured sensitivity so it wouldn't end too soon.
Lisaveta sat tranquilly in his lap, absorbing the tactile pleasure of Stefan's touch, the gentleness of his fingers, the brushing sensation of her gown slipping from her body, the strength of Stefan's legs beneath her, the warmth emanating from his powerful frame. Extraordinary feelings of possession overcame her. He was her husband, the word and the sentiment that went with it ones of potent pleasure and startlingly aphrodisiac. It surprised her she would feel that way, that having married him she would want him more, she could love him more, she could feel the heat of his body, his touch, even the sound of his voice, with increased intensity.
But she did, and desiring him beyond the serene lethargy of Stefan's motivations, she began undressing him.
He smiled, a knowing understanding smile because he was familiar with her impatience, could recognize when her breathing altered, could feel the heat of her fingers on his skin. She unbuckled his belt with mild speed and slid it from its loops. The silver buttons on his breeches came loose next, and he stood then to pull off his boots and strip off the white leather breeches.
'I like the train,' she said, kneeling nude and graceful on the bed, her hand on his hip, her smile heated from within. 'Don't you?'
It
'We're alone.' He said the words so they were special beyond their endearment, as though they meant, as well, that they were forever together.
She threw her arms around him and hugged him close, because she knew their time was precious and their immediate 'forever' was only a few days long. His skin felt sleek beneath her hands and cheek, his solid strength her anchor and security, his heart beat steady and strong under her ear. She felt for a moment too fortunate and happy, as if there were an expendable limit to the felicity of her feelings and she were living on borrowed time.
